Last Hope
by Fangirl.703
Summary: Clary's been forced into submission. Not knowing who she is or where she belongs she has no choice but to be the Escort she's been trained to be and serve her new patron; the prince of Idris. After a traumatic event that sets in motion the realization of who she is, Clary is forced to choose between the servitude that has been ingrained in her or to face the challenge of herself.
1. Sale of a Soul

_Here is the new story! I hope you guys like it. Amazingly, and don't laugh at me or not read this story becasue of it, I got the inspiration from a Tinker Bell movie. Haha. This is the first of many chapters and also I hope you guys have checked out my other stories. I hope you guys like my stories and that I'll get some good reviews off of this one. It's not Shadowhuter but it's still magic._

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Clary curls against the cold metal wall, hugging her knees to her chest. She can't see anything in the dark and she's alone, the other girls already sold off to wanting patrons not ten minutes ago. At eighteen, Clary's been living in the Night's House since she was kidnapped off the streets at twelve. Sadly in this dilapidated world, slave markets of any kind are legal; the only rule, you have to catch your slaves yourself. The world being run by royalty in every country who have their heads so far up their asses they haven't seen the light of day since they were born, this human slave market has come to a bursting, Night's House being the most sought out Escort service in the world. Before she was kidnapped she had jumped from foster home to foster home for a bit before running away, unable to cope with the cruel fosterers, not knowing who she was or where she was going, barely scraping by from day to day.

No one ever noticed the small red head, darting around, working illegal jobs to get enough money for dinner that night, sometimes going without. She wished it had stayed that way, at eighteen now she could have gotten a good job with decent pay, made a life for herself but Valentine had to catch sight of her darting around the New York streets. He'd sent men after her. She'd thought they were the police; she thought she'd done something wrong and she'd given chase.

She'd bolted through back alleys too small for anyone bigger than her petite frame, through dark streets and up onto the well-known roof tops. After twenty minutes of running and evading she thought she'd lost them but they'd risen out of the darkness, grabbing hold of her, binding her wrists and blind folding her.

She hadn't known the fate she was in for back then, still doesn't but now she has an idea and she would have preferred risking it on the streets. But the Fates had to be cruel and let Valentine find her. He's been nothing but kind to her the past six years, being his prize virgin, but there is always the looming day of when she's sold, when she is no longer a virgin. She's known she was always property, worth nothing, not even her parents had wanted her.

Valentine gave her the best room in the Night's House organizations many pleasure houses. She'd lived on the top floor, with a window view of a brightly lit New York but she was always a prisoner. Valentine had had her trained in any and all arts of pleasure, saying that she had so much potential. He'd made sure to keep her virginity intact, saying that a virgin was worth more but he's taught her all the things one can know in bed.

Sadly, Valentine has been the closest thing to a father she's ever known. He was always there when she had questions or was nervous or scared. He'd always soothed her and convinced her that she was safe but she knows she's not. With Night's House being the biggest Escort Company in the world with the best trained girls and satisfaction rate, she's worth at least one point two million dollars. Virgins are always worth more. She's known this day would come since she was brought to Valentine's office six years ago and she's dreading when that door finally opens and she's presented to the world's most prestigious leaders and richest men.

She's terrified but she's been trained not to show it, been trained to please and not burden the patron with her own emotions or conflicts so all her terror is bouncing around under her cool, calm mask. She doesn't understand why _she's _Valentine's prized virgin, he's had so many more beautiful, tall, willowy girls with flowing dark hair and blazing eyes but no, it's her, with her crimson hair and spray of freckles, her short, petite frame.

Her old friend Isabelle, only a year older than her was one of the best Escorts she knew with pitch black hair flowing down a toned beautiful back and dark chocolate brown eyes, she'd been a wonderful sweet girl to Clary and had been her best friend but she was sold to the Portuguese prince last month and Clary was left alone. She knows that Night's House supplies male Escorts also but she's only ever met one, Isabelle's brother who was just as stunning as his sister except with spectacular blue eyes. He'd been as nice to her as Isabelle and had been sold two years previous to the Portuguese princess, which was rather surprising, knowing that Isabelle and Alec are in the same palace let alone the same country.

That leaves Clary alone, about to be sold to one of the most prestigious rulers and leaders of the world, and trembling on the inside. The door opens, letting the soft light flood in from the hallway. Clary rises gracefully to her feet, crossing the room to Valentine standing in the doorway. He's beaming at her, probably seeing a walking pile of cash when he looks at her but she also sees the admiration he has for her. He has, after all, raised her like his own daughter.

"Are you ready?" He asks in a light, cheerful voice. Clary's stomach twists as she slides out into the hall.

"Yes, sir," she says, flashing Valentine a bright smile that he returns and places a hand at the small of her back, guiding her to the hotel ballroom where the auction is being held. She holds her head high, striding beside Valentine, determined not to start trembling. He guides her through the back hallways to the back stage of the ballroom for her to stand, waiting to be revealed to the lustful men sitting primed and combed at the satin covered tables with their number cards and regal gaits.

She despises these kinds of men, buying women barely out of adulthood for sex slaves. She's known some of the sold Escorts are taken as wives or husbands and become prince or princess consorts, all eligible because Valentine makes sure his Escorts are of noble birth, somehow getting long descended royalty or cousins of the Heirs to thrones, it's almost unheard of if an Heir was captured and sold into Escort market but it doesn't make her any less disgusted. It's not illegal, taking Heirs, everyone is fair game but the direct royal families have so much security surrounding their children until they're eighteen that it's nearly impossible for an Heir to be an Escort, only until eighteen because that is the age limit it's legal to be captured and forced into slavery. She doesn't know specifics but Night's House is expensive for a reason, they've always got eyes on even distantly related royals. What she doesn't understand is why she's the best, she's an orphan who was living on the streets of New York, without a single drop of noble or even refined blood in her, she doesn't even know what kind of blood she has.

But she isn't allowed to show her disdain, only allowed to pleasure her patron and hope that he'll–hopefully a he though there are those rare cases when the patron is of the same sex which she would have to tolerate–be at least decent to her, not abusing. She strides along the corridor, Valentine guiding her until they reach the back of a thick, dark red curtain. On the other side she can hear the soft chatter of the patrons come to take a chance to buy the prized virgin six years in the making.

"Alright Clare," Valentine says, using her nick name he gave her six year ago. "You know how to present yourself, this is the biggest bid yet. Don't fail me." He kisses her forehead and disappears to announce her and start the bidding. She glares after him, inwardly of course, a warm, inviting smile still plastered on her face, cursing him for kidnapping her, raising her and not even saying goodbye just, _Don't fail me. _She knows she won't of course, she's completely confident that she'll bring in at least the 1.2 she's worth but he could at least have told her goodbye.

She takes a deep breath, hearing Valentine's voice going over the lengths and measures taken to train her. She closes her eyes, her warm smile still in place, so this is it, this is what her life has come to. She would have preferred the streets to being a sex slave, no matter how high ranked the man. The higher they are, the more corrupt they are. She hears the curtain sliding back and she opens her green eyes, checking her silky black bra and panty set, then making sure her smile is still in place.

There they are, all her possible patrons sitting proud and regal at their tables, security lining the walls of the ballroom of the top floor, lining the floor to ceiling windows looking out on the roof top gardens and the soft blues of the curtains and table clothes glowing warmly around them. She searches the sea of faces, all men, all adorned in suits and tuxedoes. She sees royalty from all over Europe, Britain, Asia, Africa and South America, wealthy businessmen from major corporations all over the world. There are flashes of pitch black hair both belonging to Indian nobility, Asian royalty and the lovely contrast to the white men. Blond hair from the northern countries along with the pale skin. Dark tanned skin from the Equator countries, chocolate brown skin of the southern. She sees tall, lean, well-muscled men with arrogant smirks and lustfully blazing eyes; fat squat men with rounded bellies and wanton faces.

She tries not to show disgust at the obese, pampered pricks scattered about the room or her disdain for the pompous, over confident assholes who've had everything handed to them on a gold plated spoon inlaid with rubies while she was wandering the streets scrounging for food as they asked for another pony for their birthday. She realizes the price of the bid has already escalated to three million dollars. Valentine must be so proud.

Now paying attention to the men raising their number cards, she tries not to sneer at the people who have bid on her, anxiety closing her throat in hopes of not being bought by some overweight pig, at least she can get some pleasure for herself if the arrogant pricks who buys her has a lean muscled, powerful body. Not that she'll have any choice in the matter but a girl can hope.

Her eyes flick back and forth between the men, from the well versed Portuguese royalty to the Spanish. They land on a plump Indian man and her stomach curls at the sight of him shoving chicken into his mouth as he raises his card. Another man, this one tale and pale and dark haired, feeble really, out of place but still good looking, raises his card. The Portuguese prince who bought Isabelle raises his own and a surge of hope goes through her chest, maybe she'll be able to see Isabelle and Alec again.

Her eyes skip over the next bidder, to a handsome, nicely tanned man with blue eyes like Caribbean seawater and hair as golden as sand, she can tell under his suit, primped and emblazoned with the seal of Greece, is well defined. It's a bit peculiar to have a blond Greek but they're supposed to be phenomenal in bed. No matter how arrogant he is, she wouldn't mind going home with him.

She doesn't see the man who cast the final bid at 6.3 million dollars, too distracted with imagining what a blond Greek would be like in bed. If he would be abusive or kind, keep her a prisoner or eventually marry her but the auction is over now. She was the last girl to be sold. Valentine comes over and takes her back to the room where the other sold girls are. She doesn't know any of them but they all chat with each other excitedly or disappointedly about who they were bought by.

One girl boasts she was bought by the Roman prince. Clary vaguely remembers seeing him; tall, black haired, blue eyed, lean and muscled. Yes, the girl has a right to be boasting but Clary had seen what most girls do not, cruelty and malice in the Roman's blue eyes. Clary feels sorry for the girl, despite her being three years her senior. Though Night's House is an Escort market, it does not sell underage girls; that is one of the reasons it's so prestigious, it plays by _some_ human morals.

Valentine hands her an envelope, containing Clary's certified health records, proof of her virginity, medical history, blah, blah, blah. Attendants rush around, outfitting the mostly naked girls with clothes so when they leave her they do not look like Escorts but companions fit for royalty not that anyone would help them or report it to the police, Escorts being legal. All their luggage was brought from whatever branch of Night's House they were staying in so they could leave the auction with their patron. A male attendant, maybe thirty helps her put on a designer dress, purely snow white to make her hair seem like a flame. A black belt has been wrapped loosely around the waist. The fabric is thick enough so her black underwear does not show through and the man hands her a pair of white buckle up boots which she pulls on easily.

Valentine has her make re-done to a darker blue eye shadow and a light pink pout. He stands behind her, gripping her shoulders like a proud father, looking at her in the mirror. "You've made me so proud Clare. You're going to be in good hands, I made sure made of that. I wouldn't want my little girl going to someone who wouldn't know how to use her."

Clary smiles up at him even as disgust tightens in her stomach. She's a person, not some sex toy to be used but she had that choice stolen from her when she was twelve. Valentine leaves her to direct the rest of his girls to the lobby, the whole of the hotel having been bought out days ago for this event. All of them carry designer suit cases, full of their brilliant flashy wardrobe they've acquired over their years of training but Clary only has a small duffel bag. She's asked for only dorm shirts and jeans and Valentine has allowed her that, so her small bag is stuffed with t-shirts and jeans, lacy lingerie of course. Valentine wouldn't allow her to have cotton underwear, saying that she should be accustomed to thongs and silks if she was to be an Escort, especially one to royalty.

She follows the flow of girls dutifully out of the dressing room, down to the large, mirrored elevators. She stands in the back, not wanting to talk to girls who wanted and liked being sold like dolls. At least Izzy fought at her auction but had eventually been forced into the servitude of the Portuguese prince. She hopes she and Alec are okay. The elevator doors open with a harmonic ding, letting the milling nobility see their newly bought property.

Clary clutches her envelope inside of her white trench coat, the belt tied securely around her waist, waiting for the girls to file out, separated by the guards of both Night's House and nobility and rich billionaires. The elevator empties, leaving Clary staring at herself in the mirror wall.

Yep, she looks just like the glorified prostitute she is, do away with _Escort._ What bullshit. She never wanted this for herself, she never wanted this life. If only things had turned out differently, her parents keeping her maybe but she wouldn't want to live with people who would give up their child anyway. Valentine is holding the elevator door and he pops his head in.

He smiles kindly at her. "Are you coming Clare?"

Clary smiles back warmly, despite the fiery hatred burning in her chest. "Of course." She hikes up her duffel on her shoulder and exits the elevator into the milling crowd of slave buyers. Valentine himself places a hand on her shoulder, leading her over to her patron. She's expecting some bulbous bellied jackass or some steroid blooded prick but is only met with a group of six body guards, their suits unadorned and faces blank.

Clary looks at them each in turn, offering a warm smile that they do not return. Valentine urges her forward. "This is Clarissa, the Escort your patron bought," Valentine says.

"We are aware," says a tall, barrel chested man with a dusting of blond hair on his head. "He's already left for the airfield for his safety. We've been instructed to escort Ms. Clarissa to him."

"Good. Well, Clarissa has all her paperwork and records. I hope she is as good an Escort as I trained her to be," Valentine says, squeezing her shoulder and handing her off the guards like some piece of paper.

"Your money will be wire transferred in a month if Clarissa is to his satisfaction. If not he will send her back to you for disciplining and retrieve her after you've assured us that she will behave."

Valentine nods and disappears back into the crowd to attend to his other acquisitions. One of the men in black places a hand over the small of her back, guiding her to the front doors. At the big, glass double doors one of them opens a large black umbrella to protect against the down pour outside. They guide her out into the limo laden parking lot, opening the back door of a hummer limo. They take her duffel from her, the guard disappearing to the other side of the limo. She steps up into the back of the plush hummer. They shut the door after her and she drops the smile and rigid posture, slumping against the padded leather seat. There is a divider between her and the front half of the limo, probably another between the driver and the rest and she's thankful, she's alone.

She can't cry yet though, she's being carted to this mystery patron's private jet where she will have to spend who knows how long in the close confines with him, with the possibility of him wanting to use her first thing, not having the patience to wait until he gets home. She leans her head against the tinted, rain drenched window, listening the engine start, the mutter of the guards up front and the rain pattering against the roof.

It's official now, she's a bought slave, bound for the bedroom and a life of servitude. She can only hope her patron is not abusive, that she'll at least have a docile life instead of being forced into bed and beaten the rest of the time. She rubs her fingers against her right temple, stressing over who she was bought by. She should have paid more attention to who was buying her. Oh god, what if it's one of those bulging bastards? She really doesn't want to have to share a bed with some fat man who can't even see his own manhood! The thought is revolting. Or what if he's old? A wrinkly sack of bones? Maybe she'll misbehave just to get sent back to Valentine.

The worst, though, would be one of the arrogant, over confident princes who think so highly of themselves it makes her want to vomit. They've had everything they could ever want and more, a whole county at their disposal, ignoring the poor and helpless of their own country and spending the riches that could help those in need on gold plated toilet seats, while she was being trained for a sex slave. Her life on the streets wasn't the best or the most honest but at least she had worked for her own instead of having it handed to her on a gilded plate imported from Spain.

They travel through New York traffic slowly and Clary isn't surprised that her patron left early to get to his air field. Her breath makes the glass fog up and she draws little pictures on the glass. A longing for her sketchbook builds in her chest. She used to love drawing, until Valentine forbade it to make her focus on her sex studies. She was good too, Valentine had framed and hung some of her sketches in his office after he confiscated it.

She scratches the inside of her left wrist, where she had a chip implanted yesterday, the remote to which sits in the envelope in her coat. The chip is meant to be a monitor of sorts for her, so the patron can know where she is at any given time, her vitals. But the chip is also meant to administer a shock to her every time she disobeys her patron or steps out of line. The shock control is an option on the chip's remote, for the patron to use but it is programmed into the chip to go off automatically when she disobeys. It's meant to be in her arm for only the first two months, to ensure the Escort becomes adjusted and used to obeying her patron. After that it dissolves and the remote shuts down.

The buildings of multi-million dollar corporations rise before her, curling disgust in her chest. They've destroyed this world, polluting it until it's turned to nothing but machinery and smoke hidden under the sleek surfaces of modern buildings. It's slow going, the sky taxis overhead whizzing by in their own level of street but the fleets of residential and business cars still pack the narrow streets. She watches the brightly lit billboards gleam through the gloomy gray clouded sky.

Eventually, they break through thick down town traffic for the highway, freshly, unnecessarily, paved over. The multi levels of traffic are fast and rapid, the din of horns and shouts heard even through the obviously armored hummer. Clary watches the rain pool in the rims of the windows, hoping her life ahead of her won't be too miserable. She closes her eyes, leaning back against the cushioned head rest, waiting to be presented like the best in show dog to her buyer.

One of the guards gently shakes her awake sometime later, the rain still relentless in its falling, casting the only possible way Clary can portray her outward emotion. Her despair at being captured and sold into slavery. She smiles kindly at the guard who remains as emotionless as ever as he helps her out of the back of the hummer, holding an umbrella over her perfect hair.

The guards hand back her duffel and she can tell that they've gone through it. She doesn't really feel embarrassed, she is after all a bought sex slave. What worse embarrassment is there? They lead her across the perfect black pavement of the private airfield. The envelope in her coat feels cold and heavy inside her trench coat as she mounts the steps into the private jet.

The guards follow her in and close the stairs behind them, closing the umbrella and pushing her forward into the luxury compartment. A white couch sits on one side with blankets and pillows but there is no family crest, no logo depicting it to be royalty or business. Two plush seats face each other with a small table between. All the windows are shut, the interior lit by soft yellow lights embedded in the walls. A small kitchenette sits in the back corner, glowing with pale blue light. Nothing is over adorned or plated in gold as Clary suspected but that does not mean her patron isn't a self-absorbed money bather.

She realizes that the compartment is empty, the door at the back shut. This can't be the whole plane, there must be more, a bedroom perhaps, in the back. Well, she supposes her patron is an impatient one. The guard pushes her forward gently, gesturing for her to sit down anywhere. She continues standing, looking back to the guard, a question in her eyes. She was trained not to speak unless spoken to.

"He was tired and is resting in the back room. You are welcome to any of the food or drink but you are not allowed in the back compartment unless he expressly tells you so. Understood?"

Clary flashes a sweet smile. "Yes sir," she says kindly, still standing in the middle of the jet, not wanting to touch any of the jet that is dripping in wealth. The guard nods and disappears into the front compartment and cockpit. Her smile drops away immediately but she continues to stand rigid and uncomfortable. She hates how rich people flaunt their wealth, able to spend six million dollars on a prostitute and not use that money to help the people who actually need it.

In this world there are only two social classes, the very rich and wealthy and royal and the commoners who live in squalor one way or another. There is no in between. There are miles and miles of rich laden mansions and gardens and corporate buildings, but even larger outskirts that are of mild houses that are barely comfortable in their wealth and those that lie in shacks then those on the streets. She has been forced to rise from the very bottom to almost the top. A street urchin to a glorified slut.

Clary scrunches her nose at the thought, much rather preferring a street urchin than someone who is forced to sell their body, as she places her duffel quietly on the carpeted floor beside the couch. Her high heeled boots give her about three inches on her small, short body but she is still short enough to be far from being able to reach the ceiling. She purses her lips as she looks at the locked door, presumably so, and she feels her stomach clench in fear, the first true wave of fear she's had since she was taken. And it is not a pleasant feeling. She does not want to just hand over her body, her virginity to some stranger that she does not even know what he looks like but she's been trained to do so, she's obligated and there will be consequences if she does not do as she's told.

She's not hungry, nor is she tired, and she definitely does not want to sit down but she feels the almost silent jet engines start. She takes a seat on the couch before she can be thrown back ungracefully when the plane takes off. She does not even know where they are going, where she's being taken. It's in the envelope, both her papers and the information sheet on who has bought her. She could open it and see just who has bought her virginity for 6.3 million dollars… but she is forbidden. She is to give the envelope to her patron upon seeing him, unopened.

She folds her hands in her lap to keep from clenching them as she feels the jet lurch forward. She grasps the seat suddenly, feeling the jet pull up into the air, her heart beating rapidly. She does not let go until she feels the pull of gravity relinquish and her ears pop. Well that's new, she hates flying. Her heart beat slows as the plane steadies. She stands, looking around the compartment, unsure of what to do. She hasn't had her sketchbook in ages and desperately wants it now, for something to do. She has a book in her duffel but she doesn't feel like reading, she doesn't feel like she'll be able to concentrate when she's 30,000 feet in the air.

She decides to take off her trench coat, undoing the belt and the buttons and slinking it off her shoulders, laying it out on the back of one of the seats. She moves over to one of the windows, clutching her elbows as she lifts the shutter. What she sees is a sea of crystal and light, the familiar mass of New York streets that she wandered for years, scrounging up food just to live another day. The only city she's ever known, the only life she's ever known. Growing up in headquarters of the most high tech, prestigious Escort service in the world was not how she imagined growing up.

The city below her seems endless, a roiling mass of electricity and hidden cruelty. She closes the shutter suddenly, hatred rising in her chest and she cannot lose her calm anymore, not when she has to please her patron, not dump her traumatic childhood on them. She moves back over to the couch, settling down on the surprisingly comfortable cushions. She pulls her book out of her duffel bag, leafing through to the last page she was on… two years ago.

She blows a lock of red hair out of her face as she leans over the book, she may as well start over again, most likely having forgotten everything about Sydney Carton. She pours herself into the book, completely blocking out jet and her life at the moment until she's half way through the book and three hours have passed. She doesn't dare look out the window again, afraid of what she'll find. She quietly shuts the book, marking her page with the black silk ribbon she had on hand at the time, her training that day being bondage.

She crinkles her nose at the memory, slipping the book back into her bag. She unbuckles her boots, sliding them off her feet and keeping her pantyhose on. She so desperately wants to take the constricting garment off but she knows she shouldn't. She pads over to the seat where blankets are piled and draws an exceptionally fluffy and warm one from the seat.

She wraps it around her shoulders and slips back over to the couch, laying down on her back and staring up at the ceiling. It's a very unremarkable ceiling, very white, very plain, very non-wealth code. She curls her toes under the blanket, flipping it over her to cover her entire body. She pulls one of the pillows down under her head, stretching her body out along the couch. She's very stiff, unrested despite how her makeup makes her appear, though she is trained to have a tolerance of a few days without sleep.

She can't even think about her life now, doesn't really want to, there's not really anything to think about. Her parents abandoned her, she was found on the doorstep some old _abandoned _building, she was thrown into the shitty low social class foster system, she ran away and lived on the streets for three years until she was kidnapped by Night's House and raised to be Valentine's best, most expensive virgin. That's it, that's her life and it's pitiful.

She closes her eyes, turning to face the back of the couch and going to sleep, hoping that her life will be at least decent for the rest of it. She wakes up when the P.A. system tells the plane's occupants that they will be landing in a half hour. She sits up slowly, hugging the blanket around her against the chilly, compressed airplane air. She has to resist rubbing her eyes, careful not to smear her eye shadow so she blinks rapidly to clear away her haze. She looks around to find the compartment still empty, it sets her nerves on edge to think her patron is in the back compartment, not having shown himself yet.

It makes her nervous, letting her imagination run wild about what monster could have bought her. What kind of person would want a short, eighteen year old virgin with no name or background? It makes her shiver to think about it. She sits alone on the couch until the plane starts to descend, wherein which she grasps the couch arms with a death grip even though the landing is almost completely smooth. Once the plane comes to a stop, only then does she release the arms and stand to tug her boots on once again. She buckles the straps, standing to put on her white trench coat again but a voice, silky smooth and deliciously deep stops her in her tracks.

"You won't be needing that."

Clary rolls her eyes, her back turned to the voice, before she works up her warm inviting smile and turns around to face her patron. She has physical difficulty not gasping at the sight of him but manages to keep her features calm and warm, as deceitful as ever. The man before her looks no more than twenty three, with pale blond, almost silver, hair. His high cheekbones frame pitch black eyes with rings of dazzling silver separating the iris and pupil. His face is handsome and beautiful, full of mirth and mischief. His tight, muscled body is outlined in a custom made black and white suit, the classic red tie loose and hanging around his neck.

"Why ever not?" She asks, her voice sweet and melodious.

"Because I'd like to keep you as undressed as decently possible in public," he says with a superior smirk touching his perfect lips. Immediately, Clary's attraction to him plummets, he's just like all the other muscled, handsome, arrogant princes she's seen. She doesn't let it show though, she is here it please him any way she can so she picks up her coat, folding it and placing it in her duffel, bending over to teasingly display her rear to the man before zipping up her bag and slinging it over her shoulder.

"Whatever pleases you," she says with a seductive twist to her warm smile. She flips her fiery hair back over her shoulder, cocking her head as she waits for him. Hating every second of bowing down to kiss this arrogant pig's baby seal leather boots but she has to.

"It would please me very much," he says in a low voice, striding up to her and holding out his hand for her to take. She places her small, smooth palm in his surprisingly calloused, rough one and he smiles, guiding her to the front where the guards have already lowered the staircase. The moment she steps out onto the first step she gasps at how warm it is, the humid air caressing her skin like a blanket and what utterly shocks her is the sea of grass and trees around her. And the sunset, it's stunning. The reds and oranges burst with the dark blues and purples, creating a ty dye sky, sprawling before her, making the trees look outlandish and colorful.

She's never seen a tree before, only seen pictures and longed to touch the rough texture of bark in real life. She'd thought the entire world was industrialized, that the only trees, at least the kinds of ancient oaks she sees before her, were in green houses for harvesting but these are wild and tall, swaying in the slight breeze. They're beautiful.

"I know," the ivory haired man says in her ear, his mouth brushing her skin and she can't help the slight shiver. She must have said that out loud, not that it's of any consequence. She closes her mouth and descends the steps before her, the ivory haired man having let her hand go as she stepped onto the pavement. It's not as perfect and pristine as New York's and she loves it. It means it's been used and put to use, not constantly and superfluously replaced or updated.

The guards stand at attention at the bottom of the stairs, making a pathway for them to another hummer limo. Clary frowns inwardly, another car. A black suited man opens the door for them and Clary looks back to her patron, custom stating that the patron is always first but he only urges her forward into the hummer first, climbing in after her. It feels odd to be put before the patron but as she turns to sit down on the long limo seat she catches the ivory haired man with his eyes trained on her rear. She smiles flirtatiously when he catches her catching him stare even though the disgust is curling in her gut.

He smirks back and seats himself across from her, spreading his long arms along the back of the seat. She crosses her ankles, placing her duffel on the floor beside her feet. His eyes flick to her bag, hearing the engine start up, almost silently again. Clary watches his expression with scrutiny, trying to discern what he'll think of his six million dollar slut carrying around only a small duffel bag.

"You only have one bag?" He asks, his eyes traveling slowly up her bare legs to the dress and lingering on her chest before resting on her face. His eyes, unlike what she would have thought, hold pure curiosity; no judgment, merely wondering.

"I only have one bag's worth of belongings," Clary replies, folding her hands in her lap.

"Well, we'll have to fix that now won't we?" He asks, running a hand through his already sleep mussed ivory hair, making the ends stick up.

"I suppose we will," Clary says quietly and turns away to marvel at the passing nature flying past her window. Everything's so green, not like the bright, electric neon greens of the city but natural, warm almost. They pass a trench of liquid, it glimmers blue with the setting sunlight shining down on it and she can see things moving under the surface. She's never seen that before, she wonders what it is. The liquid is clear and constantly moving, creating cliffs and peaks before they crash back down again against a pebbly shore.

She wants to go dip her feet in the liquid all of a sudden, she thinks it is water though she's never seen it anywhere except in the million dollar fish tanks and from the tap. That water was always filtered and clear, the tank water laden with so many chemicals it was a wonder the fish inside didn't die or mutate. This water seems pure and blue. She wants to know what it feels like to have it lap at her bare toes but that will never happen, she thinks, sitting back from the window and watching her fingers folded in her lap, once her patron tries her out he won't let her out of his house, let alone his bedroom. That's how good she was trained to be, that's how good she knows she is.

She hears an odd chirping sound, like the sounds she's heard from an alarm clock but higher pitched and more melodious. She looks up, out the window and sees _things _sitting in the trees, on their branches. Their sharp, pin like mouths open and close in time with the chirps, talking back and forth to each other, their bright orange and blue skin, or what looks like skin but doesn't, sparkles in the evening light. _Birds. _She's never seen a bird before but she's read about them, their beautiful chirps and whistles that used to permeate the morning air almost two hundred years ago before the Industrialization.

The skin that isn't, if she remembers correctly, is called feathers. They're supposed to let the birds fly, soaring through a darkening blue sky. She longs to see it, and as though her wish has been granted, they all take flight, as though something has scared them, and they soar up into the blue sky in a big flash of bright orange and blue, trailing long tail feathers behind them.

She watches all the birds turn to little specks as they disappear over the tree line then flicks her eyes down to the ground at the edge of the tree line. She sees a flash of orange and black stripes, hears a low growl before it disappears with a flick of a black striped tail in the fading light. She desperately wants to go out and explore the wilderness, breath in the deep, clean air that she's never known before but again, she won't be able to do that. She might be able to glimpse it through a window if she gets one, or maybe if he has a garden. She still doesn't know if he's royalty or not and she isn't allowed to ask. Do not speak unless spoken to, Rule 24.

She bows her head, closing her eyes and listening to the birds chirping and the water rushing outside the car. She almost jolts, almost, when she hears her patron's voice drift like silk through the car. She looks up slowly, watching his pitch black eyes with her deceitful green ones.

"What's your name?"

She's stunned by the simple question, despite being property for a lifetime, the patrons haven't been known to ask such simple personal questions of their Escorts. They just want their pleasure and companions, nothing more. She quickly unzips her duffel, slipping her hand into her coat pocket and pulling out the envelope. She zips her bag back up and hands the envelope to him. He holds up his hand though, stopping her hand off.

"I asked you, not your envelope," he says, watching her with an uncomfortable intensity. She can't show her discomfort though, placing the envelope back in her lap. She runs her eyes over his face, trying to find what the purpose of knowing her name is but he's a mask, all arrogance and mirth.

"Clarissa," she says, flashing her signature warm smile.

"Clarissa," he purrs, drawing it out with a breath and a shiver runs down her spine, though she keeps it concealed, at how he's said it. "Have you had an orgasm before?"

Clary sputters, the question completely throwing her off. She knows this is a sex business but she didn't think her patron would ask questions like that. Her mouth hangs open for a minute before she regains her composure. "No."

"Have you touched yourself before?"

Clary almost glares at the question. This is an Escort business yes, but that is a _personal _question! "No," she says and is horrified to find her voice sharp. She shouldn't cop attitude with her patron. It's against the rules but he doesn't seem insulted, he seems satisfied to find that his little Escort has fire, one that she's been told to dampen.

"So you've never known pleasure?"

"No."

A smirk crosses his face and she can't help the resentment continually on the rise the longer she's with her patron. She doesn't even know his name and he's asking her if she's had an _orgasm _before! Her fingers close around the envelope in her lap, wanting to rip it into pieces but she manages to restrain herself.

"You truly are a virgin," he murmurs to himself, his gaze shuttered before turning his smirk to a smile. "I'm Jonathan," he says, holding out his hand for the envelope. Clary bits back her rude retort and hands him the envelope across the small space separating his seat bench and hers. He plucks it out of her hand, catching her hand before she can pull away and kissing the backs of her knuckles. "Morgenstern," he whispers against her skin, his breath fanning across her hand like flames. The name sounds familiar but she isn't trained in history or corporation, sadly.

She resists snapping her hand back until he lets it go, not breaking eye contact with her. "It's a pleasure to meet you," she says, rubbing her thumb over her knuckles in her lap, feeling her skin cooling from the blaze Jonathan had set.

"No, the pleasure is all mine," he says with a devilish smile.

"As it should be," Clary says, forcing her smile to return. "What would you like me to call you?" She asks, that is probably one of the only questions she is allowed to ask. What does he want to be called, what turns him on, how fast does he want her to go, does he like bondage; those are the only types of questions she is permitted to ask.

"Well, most people call me Your Highness, Your Grace, Prince Jonathan, Prince," so he is royalty. "But I want you to call me just Jonathan."

"Yes, Your Grace." What? She's allowed to tease, besides it's improper to call a royal by their name unless you are family, which she most definitely is not. She lets a slow seductive smirk cross her lips and she can see lust blaze up in his black eyes. He takes the envelope, expertly slitting the top and pulling out the papers within. His eyes scan over what she thinks to be her blood work and family history, not that she has any, and his black eyes widen as he continues to read. Clary is itching to know what Valentine put on her papers but she can't ask. Finally he looks up at her, slipping the papers back inside the envelope and folding it to place in his inside suit coat pocket.

"Well didn't I just score the crown jewels," he says. Clary so desperately wants to ask what the hell he means but she can't. She's not allowed. She bits her lip in frustration, watching Jonathan pull his gaze down over her body.

She returns to looking out the window, making her hair fall forward so it curtains the side of her face, hiding the gloomy tinge to her smile. This is what her life is now, she should learn to accept it yet some part of her is still rebelling against it, kicking and fighting being a slave. The rest of the ride is taken in silence, Jonathan silently staring at her which she can feel burning her skin and Clary obliging the silence and taking Rule 24 to heart.

Soon though, they reach their destination, a large, sprawling stone castle, equipped with the modern amenities of course. Security gates, security systems, powered water fountains, perfectly maintained gardens. All sitting at the top of a hill, overlooking a great sprawling, glowing city. It looks like New York but doesn't. Nature seamlessly blending with technology and manmade buildings. It's not as terrible as she would have thought.

The turrets jut out over a rocky outcrop, water flowing from the castle itself and coming from around it in those water trenches to cascade over the cliff into the large pool below where she can see people gathering. Their hummer is coming up to the castle from behind, the air strip they landed on probably the royal family's private air field. The castle rises tens of stories into the air, making it seem endless, almost blending perfectly with the blue sky, the tips of towers and turrets painted a dazzling sky blue. There's a large, well-traveled road leading down a gentle incline towards the city below the cliff but the hummer pulls up to the back gate, pausing for a moment before the gold gates open inward and they pull into a luxury garage, complete with an arsenal of armored vehicles and sports cars.

The door opens for them and Jonathan exits first, which is completely fine with her, not wanting to be violated any more than her job requires. Clary grabs her duffel, slinging it over her shoulder and moving to the door. Jonathan holds out his hand to help her down but Clary, in a rash spark of defiance, steps out on her own. She doesn't see the prince's reaction but she can feel his eyes on the back of her head.

Jonathan places a hand on the small of her back, guiding her through the lines of cars into the entryway from the garage, the guards disappearing like smoke. The castle looks like a modern house on the inside; sleek, furred carpets, modern side tables lining the walls but what is most stunning are the paintings, portraits and landscapes all hand painted in oils and acrylic.

She's never seen these kinds of paintings before. They look from around the Renaissance period and all the things from before the Industrialization were either incinerated or immortalized in museums that only the fabulously wealthy have access to, so to see them in a castle, out in the open with no case, to see them at all really, is completely stunning. She sees paintings of a night sky by someone called Van Gogh. An abstract painting made of reds and yellows and lines by someone called Picasso. Then there are the portraits of regal looking royalty sitting, bedecked in finery and jewels. The men all seem to have pale blond hair, like Jonathan's. The women are all stunning and gorgeous, their hair always varying from red to black to brown to blond. The men are always as breath taking as the prince behind her, guiding her past all the paintings and up a spiral staircase to what looks like living quarters.

The prince leans down, brushing his lips along the skin beside her ear. "We have to be quiet, the entire court's asleep."

Clary can't help but hear the innuendo in his words. He leads her forward, through different mazes of halls and different wings of the floor, the doors always no more than two in a hall, widely spaced. There are crests and flags painted on the doors as they pass, all belonging to different countries which leads her to believe this floor is dedicated to different delegates and their entourage. She recognizes them all, Spain, Portugal, Italy, France, Germany, England, Russia, India. She assumes not all of them are occupied but enough are that they have to be silent as the prince leads her through what seems the back way to another floor, what she assumes to be the royal guests, their flags and family crests once again painted on the doors, then another floor that she thinks is for visiting family members of the ruling royal family.

He leads her through the halls in silence and Clary feels absolutely lost. They cross a bridge spanning what she thinks is the throne room, but is too dark to tell, to a completely different wing of the castle. She can't help but feel the prince of whatever country she's in is sneaking her in. Finally after what feels like forever, they finally reach the private wing of the royal family.

He leads her up yet another spiral staircase, this one glass, to a divide with three halls leading off of it. The prince leads her down the one on the far left, to the only door in the warmly painted hallway, adorned with many more paintings but it's too dark to see them. So she's going to have to sleep in the same bed as him, usually patrons just take their pleasure and go to their own rooms, leaving the Escort in their personal rooms but from the look of it, this prince either wants to deflower his pretty little virgin in his own bed or she'll be living in this room as well as him. She hopes it's the former so she can retreat to her own private quarters and sob, hopefully she won't be in too much pain. The first time is always supposed to be painful.

The prince, for she really doesn't want to be on a first name basis with an arrogant pig who buys virgins, opens the door and nudges her in, shutting and locking the door behind him. He flips the lights on, revealing an entry hall. It's like his own personal freaking apartment inside the castle. He has a sitting room with long, gloriously cushioned couches sat in front of a cordless plasma screen, a separate hall off to the side of the entry way that contains the bedrooms–yes heaven have mercy there's two– with their doors slightly ajar but their lights off. But the best part of all is the balcony, the double French doors stand open, letting the cool night time breeze sweep through the apartment and the view looks down probably hundreds of feet onto the seamlessly blended half technology, half nature city below. Beyond that she can see a silver disk floating in the blue sky so dark it looks black.

She drops her duffel in amazement and rushes to the balcony, clutching onto the railing and staring up at the sky. Millions of little silver dots are scattered across the sky, all around the silver disk. It's so beautiful, she's never seen anything like it. New York has too much light pollution to catch even a glimpse of the beautiful silver dots and the brilliant full silver disk. She cranes her neck, making out pictures in the simple but brilliant silver lights. They're magnificent.

She closes her eyes and feels the night breeze blowing her hair back. If this is where she has to live for the rest of her life as a prisoner, as long as she can come out on this balcony every night, it's worth her virginity. She opens her eyes again, marveling at the lights in the sky. She feels the prince come up beside her, leaning on the stone railing beside her.

"You act as though you've never seen stars before," he says, looking up peacefully at the night sky.

"What are stars?" Clary asks wistfully, still staring up at the brilliant silver. It looks like paint on a dark blue canvas. The prince is silent beside her; she can feel him watching her watch the silver lights in the sky. He reaches up and brushes a curl back from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear and she flinches away unconsciously. She turns to the prince, horrified that she flinched but she doesn't want to be touched by someone like him.

The prince shows no reaction just cocks his head in curiosity. "Do you truly not know what stars are?" She shakes her head, her eyes wide and scared, waiting for him to punish her for flinching away from his touch. She is supposed to do everything with his touch except flinch away from it. He still does not react to her flinch, only adopts a curious knit of his brow.

"Look up," he says quietly. She follows his command, gratefully looking up at the beautiful sky. "See those silver lights, dotting the sky?" She nods, her eyes tracing out the patterns in the silver dots. "Those are called stars. They're big balls of gas burning millions of miles from earth. Some of them are hundreds of times bigger than this planet and some are millions. None of them are directly next to each other but how they look to us, we can make pictures, or constellations, in the stars." He raises his arm, pointing in the general direction of stars off to the south. "See over there, that's called Orion. You can see the three stars in a row, which makes his belt. Then you can see the tip of his toe, that really bright star down there and then his underarm, the other really bright star. You can trace the rest of his body with the duller stars–"

"None of them are dull," Clary says, cutting him off and trying not to smack herself for it. She can feel her chip beginning to warm in her wrist, in anticipation for her next outburst to shock her. "They're just less bright."

She can see the hint of a smile on the prince's face out of the corner of her eye. "You can trace the rest of his body and his bow with the less bright stars. Orion is special; his constellation tells a story. One," he takes a deep breath. "That I will tell you another time. Come, let's go back inside before we end up cooling the entire outside."

He takes her hand, gently pulling her back inside, her eyes still glued on the stars above. He closes the French doors and draws the thick, light blue curtains, much to her disappoint but she needs to whip herself into check. She's only been with her patron for about an hour and she's already stepped over several lines that she's been forbidden to cross. She doesn't need the distraction. She wants to drop his hand but she's his property, she has to oblige him by letting him touch her as much as he wants to.

She wipes her ridiculous school girl look off her face, placing her poster smile on her lips before turning to the prince. She moves forward, placing her hand on his chest, pressing her lower body up against his. She isn't surprised to find him erect.

She leans in to whisper in his ear. "Where do you want me?" She asks, brushing her lips over his neck. She's satisfied to feel him shiver. She slips her hand under his shirt, running her fingernails over his hard, muscled abdomen. She can't fault him on his physical perfectness. His fingers tighten on her hand and she runs her tongue over the sensitive skin beneath his ear.

"Why don't I show you the bedrooms?" he says, his voice hoarse.

"Whatever my prince wants," she purrs pulling her lips away from his ear. She follows him back to the entryway as he picks up her duffel bag and pulls her to the side hall where the bedroom doors sit open. He pulls her into the one on the left and doesn't bother turning on the lights. She hears him drop her bag. His hands close around her hips and she tenses, her confidence plummeting and terror replacing it. She really doesn't want to be deflowered by some pompous prince, a man she barely knows.

She forces her body to relax, to step into his grasp and melt herself against him. She's nervous too, she's never kissed anyone before, like he said earlier, she's truly a virgin in every sense of the word. She closes her eyes, losing herself to feel of him, the lessons of where the most erogenous parts of a man's body is, the best ways to work them to get maximum pleasure flooding her mind. She slides her hands up under his suit coat, his button up, to run her fingers down his spine. He arches forward, a low growl forming in the back of his throat.

She doesn't understand why he's holding back. Is he waiting for her to kiss him? For her to remove his clothes? She decides to find out for herself and withdraws her hands from under his shirt, pressing her lips to the hollow of his throat and running her tongue along the skin, pressing hot kisses there. She slides her hands up his chest, under his coat, running her mouth up his throat as she goes, and slipping off his coat. She tosses it across the room, moving her lithe fingers up to his top button, her mouth working on his lower jaw, purposefully avoiding his mouth. Popping it open she hears the prince growl again and she slowly, torturously pops open the next button and the next until there's only one left.

She waits, anticipation clearly building in the prince's groin, his erection hot and hard, pressing into her hip. Moving her mouth back up to his ear, she licks him, causing another shudder to run through him. "Are you sure we have to be quiet?" She asks, using his innuendo from the hall despite her disgust but that is what her job is going to be for the rest of her life, she might as well learn to live with it. She just needs to get through this night, it's always supposed to be the worst your first night, especially as an Escort, especially as a virgin. If she can get through this pain, she can get through her life. Maybe after he falls asleep she'll go stare at the stars again. "Because I might be a screamer," she whispers.

The prince's grasp on her hips tightens and he spins her around, burying his lips against her exposed collarbone and walking her back towards what she assumes is his bed. She can't help but moan as she feels his lips press against her skin, moving like velvet and fire, his teeth pulling her skin. Her legs stop suddenly, colliding with the soft side of a bed, clad in a very fluffy comforter, as he lays her back down on it. Her body tenses again as she feels his erection–still clothed thank god–settle between her thighs.

She makes herself relax again, unbuttoning the last of the prince's buttons and slipping his shirt off his arms, letting it fall softly to the floor. He laves his tongue up her throat, leaving a scorching hot trail on her skin. Her stomach starts to quiver as the prince drops to his knees at the edge of his bed, her lower legs hanging off the side. Her entire body is strung as taut as rope as he unbuckles her boots. Slowly pulling them off, his hands slide up her thighs to the tops of her pantyhose, dragging the constricting material down her legs and crumpling them up before throwing them across the room and pressing his hot lips to her thighs, her inner thighs. She gasps and tenses her body, clenching her hands in the overstuffed comforter, still as stone, her training forgotten as his lips draw at her sensitive skin, travelling closer to her core, locked and guarded since twelve and now he has the key.

Her whole body quivers slightly as the prince rises again, trailing his hot hands along her now bare legs. Her eyes are squeezed shut so she can't see the prince when he takes her innocence. She relaxes again as his hands leave her legs, bracing on either side of her head. She braces for his kiss, his assault on her lips, not sure how alien it will feel, how weird or wrong or foreign it will feel but it doesn't come. She opens her eyes, finding the prince's pitch black eyes in the dim room. His brow is creased as he searches her face.

She reaches up and cups his cheeks, running her thumbs over his cheekbones, trying not to be distracted by his naked, gorgeous torso and his want settled between her thighs. "Is something wrong my prince? Is there something you want me to do?" She asks, hoping that he isn't mad with her, or displeased. She likes it here, in this natural country with its stars and trees and water trenches and birds and big orange and black striped animals. She doesn't want to go to New York and if being a sex slave to this not so bad looking, albeit arrogant, prince means she'll stay here, she thinks it's worth it. So she's will do everything in her power to please him however he wants.

"Answer my question, truthfully," he says, his eyes scanning her face in the dark.

"Of course."

"Are you scared?"

The question shocks her into a stunned silence. Could he tell she is scared? She's not doing her job right if he sees her fear. She starts to shake her head, wanting to please him and prove to him that she wants him to have her, if only to stay here but he cuts her off.

"You will remember that you are not allowed to lie to your patron when he asks a question. And it's even worse to lie to royalty," he says lowly, his face not changing.

Clary stops moving for a moment. If she says yes, he'll send her away, send her back to Valentine and New York to be auctioned off again. She can't go back, she doesn't want to go back to corporate buildings and sex training. Valentine will be furious if she's sent back. She can't tell what he'll do to her. But she is obligated to tell the truth to her patron, only when he asks though. If all Escorts told the truth half of them would scream at their patrons and say they hated them for buying people like property. She's supposed to tell the truth that will please their patron but she can't tell what will please this prince.

His black gaze is piercing, pinning her to the bed and dragging the truth out of her. She finds herself, to her dismay, nodding. The prince though, _smiles _at her, shocking her into stillness. He dips his head, massaging her neck with his lips and sucking the tension out of her.

"I understand Clarissa," he whispers, pulling his lips back to just brush her skin. "I don't want you to be scared. We can wait another night, wait for you to get to know me, to get settled." He trails sweetheart kisses down her throat to the hollow of her collarbone. "You must be tired besides. Today must have been stressful for you." He pulls back, taking her hands and pulling her off the bed. How is he being so compassionate? Why, more importantly. Without her boots her eyes only come to his collarbone, bare and naked in the dimness. "I thought as much. Come, I'll show you to your room. Unless… you would like to sleep in here, with me." His eyes search hers, hopeful.

"Where do _you_ want me?" She asks, repeating her question but with a lot less suggestion, more timidity and shyness.

"Where you will be most comfortable," he replies. She'll feel more comfortable in the bedroom across the hall but she needs to be more comfortable with the prince, comfortable enough that she'll be relaxed enough so he can deflower her by tomorrow. It might not be so bad either to have strong warm arms wrapped around her while she sleeps too. Oddly enough she's never liked sleeping alone, she supposes it's from being abandoned by her parents. She just doesn't like to be alone so she forces herself to reply to the prince.

"With you," she says, her voice regaining some of its silky quality to her relief. He smiles, the first true smile she's seen from him, and he pulls her close to him, placing a warm kiss on her cheek.

"I'll let you get washed up. Come, the bathroom's this way." He leads her back out into the dimly lit hall and down one door to a hidden bathroom she hadn't seen. It's tan tile with veins of quartz, a large, enclosed stone tile shower and a sunken bathtub with two vanities with huge mirrors on either side.

"I'll leave you to it," he says, slipping out the door. Clary nearly collapses to the ground in relief, he hadn't sent her back. But now she needs to make sure she's comfortable enough so she can let him have her innocence because she isn't going back to New York. She takes a deep breath, striding over to the shower and turning it on to scalding hot. She sheds her dress, her black satin bra and panties and steps under the scalding water, watching it turn her pale skin red.

She finds feminine soaps tucked into the back of the sunken stone shelf. She's intrigued by what smells the prince picked out for her, what he thinks a woman should smell like. She finds coconut and hibiscus shampoo and conditioner and a floral scented body wash. She likes how they smell. After she's done showering she stands idle under the water, reveling in the burn the water is giving her, lingering for a while before she finally exits and grabs an incredibly fluffy towel, drying off and wrapping it around her chest. She crosses to the mirror, frowning, then exiting the bathroom back to the prince's room where her duffel is.

She pushes open the door, letting light flood the room and the naked prince donning a pair of sweatpants. Her eyes widen and she scrambles for her duffel, slamming the door behind her and rushing back to the bathroom. She's seen a naked man before, it was just a shock to see _that _naked man, the one who is supposed to stick his distinctly male parts in her distinctly female parts and steal her virginity.

She blows out a breath, annoyed at herself. She needs to get her emotions under control, she can do this. She places her duffel on the counter, unzipping it and finding the smaller bag with her brush, toothbrush, toothpaste, makeup, feminine products… birth control. Night's House allows their Escorts two months of birth control, to let them become accustomed to their patrons without the risk of pregnancy. It's optional to take and it's up to the patrons, if the Escorts tell them, to get more birth control. She pushes the pills to the bottom of her bag and starts brushing out her red curls, letting them twist and spiral back to their normal shape, extra coiled because of being straightened all day.

She takes her makeup wipes and scrubs off the dark blue eye shadow, black eyeliner, pink blush, peach lip gloss and foundation from her face. Feeling a hundred pounds lighter without it, she throws the wipe in the trash bin and digs around for one of her dorm shirts and some underwear. She's always slept without a bra because it's uncomfortable and because it allows the patrons easier access say if in the morning they want a little play time they won't have to undo the bra.

She hates being property, she hates having to follow all these rules placed over her when she wanted nothing to do with this life. It was forced on her at twelve, she doesn't want to be here. Not in this country, it's beautiful but in this castle, in the confines of the prince's apartment where she's going to have to let him have her sooner or later.

She slides her duffel under the sink, hanging the towel back up and turning off the lights before sliding back into the hall. She walks impossibly slow to the prince's bedroom, pausing outside the closed door, her hand hovering over the handle. She needs to just go in, climb in bed and press up against the prince's body. That's what she's supposed to do, she needs to prove to the prince that she's not afraid, even though she is, so the worst part can be over with. She's staring at the handle, polished metal, she's surprised it isn't gold encrusted diamond. She would expect as much from a prince of this caliber, judging from what she's seen of his castle.

She steels herself and opens the door, finding a dark room and no prince. She's not about to seek him out so she stalks over to the bed, eyeing the bed with disdain. Now her panic is gone all she feels is hatred. She's ultimately a play toy for the enjoyment of a stuck up prince. She didn't sleep at all last night, too nervous to so she's rather tired and his bed looks plush and comfortable but does she really want to wake up with an erection pressed against her back?

She closes her eyes, happy that her previous disdain is back in place instead of her fight or flight panic. Being the virgin that she is, she was expecting a shock from all of this of course, but she knew what to expect. She knew about the pain, about the kissing, the touching but the lessons hadn't prepared her at all for the real thing nor were they supposed to. But she didn't think she would be this scared.

She turns around, striding out the door back to the sitting area. She draws a curtain back, unlocking the balcony door, and slips out into the cool night. It's still hot and humid enough that the air blankets her already hot skin. She turns her head up to the stars dotting the sky, her eyes immediately finding Orion and his belt. She wonders absently what kind of story he has to tell. She'll have to ask the prince sometime.

She hears hoots from the forest surrounding the back of the castle and wonders what kind of animal is making that sound. All of a sudden there is a symphony of howls, low and long and forlorn, all echoing back to each other, like some sort of concerto. She listens to the sounds of the night, so different from the honking horns and blazing lights of New York. It quiet and peaceful, the stars shining brightly. For once in her life, it's tranquil.

She turns her face up to the silver light being cast by the silver disk in the middle of the stars. She wonders if that's a star too. It's very big. Closing her eyes she takes a deep breath of the thick air, blowing it out through her nose. Oh yes, she could get used to this. The tranquility is broken however by her patron's beckoning voice, calling her from within his apartment in his castle. Her real smile falls, replaced by a fake, tired and sexily timid one before she slips back inside. Closing and locking the door behind her.

She finds the prince in mid stride from the bedrooms. His upper half is bare naked and in the light she can't help but drool over the masterfully sculpted muscles, the deep V-line leading down to what is supposed to take her innocence, his taut biceps curling down his arms into those powerful hands that had held her hips and caressed her face. Looking at him like this, she wouldn't think him capable of compassion or kindness. She still doesn't, he is only patient, biding his time to have his six million dollar Escort willing and welcoming. He's smart, smarter than he looks to play it like that. If he earns the Escort's, her, trust first then he'll have no struggles in the future, just pure pleasure and she'll be nothing but willing to give it to him.

She doesn't want to but she'll have to if she wants to stay in this paradise and not go back to that concrete jungle of New York. "Yes my prince?" She asks, her back against the glass balcony door.

He seems to enjoy it when she calls him 'my prince,' she'll have to continue doing so. His eyes roam her bare legs and the hint of black panties peeking out the bottom of her shirt appreciatively before striding over to her and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her close. Definitely just patient, if he really cared if she was scared or not he would not be touching her.

"I want you to come to bed my sweet. You need to rest," he says softly, burying his nose in her neck, breathing deeply, probably wanting to smell the scents he picked out just for her. She arches her body against his ever so slightly, the need to stay here crushing her panic. His arms squeeze tighter around her waist, so warm and taut. Maybe she could get used to being held by such a man.

"Anything you want," she whispers back, wrapping her arms around his neck. He surprises her by bending down and sweeping her legs out from under her, picking her up and holding her to his chest. He litters kisses all down the side of her neck, stopping to imbue his tongue in the hollow of her collarbone. He shoves open his door with his hip, kicking it closed with a definitive click. She notices that he hasn't kissed her on the lips yet, maybe wanting to enjoy the full extent of it when he's enjoying the first feel of her body taking his in.

She doesn't care at the moment, thankful he's avoided taking her first kiss as well; he sets her down on the super fluffed, super cushioned bed. He peels back the covers and she feels silk caress her bare legs, the prince sliding between her and the top sheet and comforter. The bed feels huge, sprawling beyond even the prince's reach. His thighs hold her hips in place as his hands brace on either side of her head, his mouth roaming her throat and she lets him, getting accustomed to the feel and smell of him. She has to admit he does feel rather good, especially that thing he's doing with his teeth to the skin just below her collarbone, traveling lower and lower…

She gasps as she feels him pull down her shirt, forming a low V, exposing her right breast. His tongue trails around her nipple before his teeth graze her areola. She arches her body up at the surprisingly pleasurable sensation. She'd been taught that men like to bite women's breasts, she'd been told she'd have to tolerate it but it had never sounded very pleasant to her. She remembers sitting with her legs crossed on the bean bags they provided for classes, wanting to make sure the Escorts were loose and flexible, the bean bags always shifting. She remembers the female teacher giving the lesson, describe how men like to nip and bite and suck and she had unconsciously crossed her arms over her chest, she'd been thirteen, but the instructor scolded her.

Though as the prince nips at her, sucking her breast she can't help the low moans escaping her throat, sending waves of pleasure through her. He stops though, dragging his lips back up her chest and letting her shirt spring back over her pert nipple. He kisses her cheek softly.

"I'll leave you that to think about. It might change your perspective," he whispers, trailing his tongue along her jaw, running his hands down her body before slowly removing his himself from above her. He lays down beside her and she feels her body, pulled as though by a magnet, slide over and press against his.

She can feel his triumphant smile as he slides his arm around her waist. She lets her disgust reign as she buries her face in the pillows. She shouldn't have let him do that but it's her only option, her job so she keeps her mouth shut and throws her leg over his like a good little girl and goes to sleep.


	2. Darkness Descending

Lovelies! I have posted a new chapter of the story. I love how much you guys love this story and all ready show so much support for it. I hope this story keeps your interests and I apologize for the delay on the updates to my other stories. It's just so difficult to keep up with everything but I'm getting there I promise. So enjoy the new fruits of my crazy messed up mind. Adou till next time.

* * *

Clary feels the prince's morning problem, pressing into her hip, before she's even fully conscious. She's lying on her back with the prince on his side and pressed against her. Opening her eyes, she turns her head on the very comfortable pillow and looks around the prince's room. The bed is a super king size–fit for a prince–with black silk sheets and a dark blue comforter. The walls are a nice contrast of mocha tan and the walls are adorned with tons of shelves either holding a plethora of trophies, ribbons and awards or books.  
The prince's arm is thrown across her stomach, resting limply along her hips and she easily slips out from under it, thankfully relieving the pressure of his male morning problem. She stretches before looking back over the prince's sleeping body. His face is half buried in the pillows, his arm still stretched out as though she were under it and his bare back exposed to her wandering eyes. His wonderfully sculpted shoulder blades move with every breath he takes and she can see his biceps flexing unconsciously.  
She rolls her eyes, why does he have to be such an arrogant pig? Sure he has beauty to match that of his country, not that she knows what country this is, but his over confidence is going to become suffocating and insufferable. She pads over to the door, slipping out into the hallway where the lights in the ceiling blink on, motion activated. Entering the living area she can see the curtains still closed and she moves to open them, letting the morning sunlight stream in, casting vibrant reds and oranges across the tile floor. The dawn is as beautiful as the dusk here, colors all fresh and new and bright, warming her skin. She smiles, stepping out onto the already warm stone and into the warmer morning air. She grasps the railings, leaning down to the city below. She can already see the cars and foot traffic bustling, she can see tours buses flying three levels above taxi traffic which is surprisingly not as thick as New York and then residential car traffic at the very bottom.  
She can't see the people but she can see the dark blurbs of movement indicating them and she wants nothing more than to go explore this bizarre half nature, half technology city but she doesn't think her prince will let her out of the castle any time soon. At least not until he's deflowered her. She stands out on the balcony, bathing in the warm sun until the air becomes too hot for her to stand and she retreats inside to the air conditioned castle.  
What she was not expecting this morning was to be knocked down by a giant wolf hound but that is exactly what happened. It pins her to the floor and licks her face, wagging its tail ferociously. It seems very excited to see her and with the continued licking she begins to laugh, turning her head from side to side barely getting out the word stop between licks. He's very soft and big as she tries to push the dog off, his fur is shorn short because of the heat but it's still silky smooth. Someone is shouting at the dog, taking it by the collar and dragging it off her then taking her hand and helping her up.  
She wipes the slobber off her face, the giant wolfhound still assaulting her, trying to get attention standing almost to her hip in height, and she looks up at her savior. He's tall, lanky, rather scrawny with chocolate brown curls and square glasses framing nice, kind eyes.  
"You must be Prince Jonathan's companion," he says and turning to the dog for a moment, scolding it in an unfamiliar language. It immediately plunks its rear down on the tile, panting with a big, very sharp toothed grin, its tail still wagging rapidly as it stares at her. The brown haired man turns back to her, holding out his hand, she shakes it. "I'm Simon, the prince's squire. This," he says indicating the wolfhound very clearly having difficulty staying still. "Is Sterling and that," he says pointing to another wolfhound who has curled up on the couch across the room. "Is Silver. She's very lazy," he whispers, making Clary crack a small smile.  
"I'm Clarissa. Is there something you needed?" She asks. "The prince is still asleep."  
Simon shakes his head. "No, I was just sent up to tell him that there's a family breakfast later this morning if he didn't already get the message on his fridge," he says pointing towards the small kitchenette in the back of the living room, complete with a small granite island, fridge, stove top, and microwave. On the stainless steel fridge is a large LED display rotating pictures and messages. The one flashing at the top in big bright letters is FAMILY BREAKFAST AT ELEVEN. DON'T BE LATE JONATHAN -MOM. "He's supposed to be up by now any way. Did you do something to him I should know about?" Simon flashes a playful smile and Clary blushes red at the innuendo in his words.  
Clary smiles at the little note, turning to hide her blush, imagining the reigning queen here scolding her pampered prince before looking back to Simon. "I'll be sure to tell him," she says with a sweet smile, turning back having gotten her blush under control. This squire seems very docile, especially for the prince of the realm's squire. They're usually known to flaunt their status but Simon seems humble and content, almost like she would expect a normal teenage boy to act; that is if she knew what normal was.  
"Oh and one more thing. Prince Jonathan is supposed to bring his companion for the royal family to meet. So I guess that would be you. Would you mind if I left the dogs here? I have to go take care of the horses," he says, inching toward the door. "Not at all," she says sweetly, flashing him a genuine smile. She hopes to see more of him, he doesn't seem to care about her looks even though she's half naked under her dorm shirt. So far he's only looked at her face. Simon smiles at her before slipping out the door a tad awkwardly and leaving her with an unconscious prince and his two dogs in a castle in she doesn't know what part of the world. The door clicks shut and Sterling immediately snaps to attention, jumping to all fours and sniffing around her legs. The whiskers on his snout graze her skin, making her giggle and bat the dog away.  
"Stop that," she says, crossing to the kitchenette. She looks at the display on the fridge, messages and pictures interchanging. Messages like-

FAMILY BREAKFAST- ELEVEN

EQUSTRIAN TOURNAMENT-TOMORROW

JONATHAN'S NIGHT'S HOUSE TRIP- YESTERDAY

THE QUEEN'S DRESS FITTING-THURSDAY

U.N. GALA- SATURDAY

She wonders what all these events are for. She doesn't ever remember the mention of a U.N. Maybe it's some sort of royal gathering. Sterling is still circling around her, smelling her and licking up her legs. It's almost scary how big the dog is, as tall as her waist, its head coming level with her naval. She reaches out tentatively, letting the dog sniff her palm before she runs her hand over the short, soft fur on his forehead. Sterling leans into the pet, obviously enjoying the attention before Clary withdraws her hand and pads over to the bedroom hall, walking down to the bathroom for her duffel. Rummaging around, she finds her ancient copy of A Tale of Two Cities. Valentine had somehow managed to find the book, giving it to her for her fourteenth birthday present. She walks back out to the living room, plopping down on the couch beside Silver who is still sleeping soundly. She finds her place in her book, after tying her annoyingly wild curls back in a bun and begins reading only to be interrupted when Sterling leaps onto the couch, sitting down on the opposite side of her then laying down, throwing his front paws across her lap and going to sleep like Silver who has now shifted and is curled up against her side. She feels squished, the dogs pressed up against her sides on across her legs but she doesn't mind, just lays her book across Sterling's back and continues reading until the sun has completely risen in the sky and the day has clearly begun, though her prince doesn't seem to think so.  
She ends up closing her book and scratching behind Sterling's ears until they perk up and he bolts off the couch, racing for her ivory haired prince coming out from the his bedroom. Silver only raises her head in acknowledgement before laying her head down in Clary's lap. The prince scratches Sterling's head before heading over to Clary, curled up on the couch with his other pet. He braces his hands on the back of the couch, leaning down and caging her in.  
She presses back against the couch as the prince leans in closer, and she smiles up at him, admiring his sleepy, relaxed face and mussed hair. He smiles back and dips his mouth to her neck, kissing up her throat and she purrs, arching her body up and tangling her fingers in his hair.  
"That's a nice way to say good morning," she whispers, his tongue licking at the tender skin he just rolled between his teeth.  
"I thought I'd give you a special good morning after your first night," he says quietly.  
"I liked it very much. Oh, and your squire came earlier to tell you that you have a family breakfast at eleven," she says, running her hands down his biceps. Silver stirs in her lap and lifts her head, nudging the prince's chest insistently until he pulls his lips away from her throat and gives some attention to his dog.  
Clary slips out from under him and stands, walking toward the bathroom, wanting to slip away unseen and change. She's almost to the hallway, her prince still rapt in petting his dog but Sterling pops up all of a sudden, wagging his tail and blocking her path to the hallway. Clary frowns and tries side stepping the dog but he seems set on getting her to pet him. The prince takes this opportunity to stalk up behind her and wrap his arms around her waist, pulling her back against him.  
"I might just have to skip it and stay here with you," he murmurs, his hands creeping downward. She tenses fractionally.  
"Your mother said not to be late," she says turning around in his grasp and draping her arms around his neck, pressing her body up against his and shuttering her gaze. "I'll be here when you get back," she whispers. "To do with everything you want to." She knows that Simon said the royal family wanted to meet her but she's not sure she wants to meet them. What if they treat her like the slut Valentine made her into? Or she's disregarded like a play toy? She knows that she has her job of pleasing the prince but she doesn't want to have it rubbed in by the royal family. She doesn't believe she's fit for anything more than what she was trained to do, and that's nothing outside the bedroom. She was raised on the streets and in a whore house, she was meant to be coveted and kept in a bedroom or strutted about in front of others at galas and balls, not presented before the glares a royal family in private.  
All the other Escorts have some royal blood in them, they were meant to be flaunted in front of a royal court. She was born an orphan and street urchin, yes she had the training to be presented in front of royals, trained to be sophisticated and proper but she just won't feel right being brought before the prince's family. It wouldn't be right and she wouldn't feel right. And the prince doesn't know she was supposed to come with him nor does he have to.  
"Everything?" He whispers, lust blazing in his black eyes. She smirks and takes his hand, guiding it down her front, despite what her mind is screaming at her, and slips his hand into her panties.  
His fingers tighten and slide over her dark red curls. "Everything." She jumps as his fingers slide lower, brushing over her inner heat. He growls low in his throat as she looks up at him through thick red lashes, waiting for him to go farther, her whole body tensed at the prospect.  
"You have no idea how much I want to throw you onto my bed and lock the door behind me," the prince says, slowly backing her against the wall until her spine is pressed flush with the high end plaster. His fingers apply the slightest pressure and she arches forward, wholly encouraging the prince to take it, lock himself in a room with her, get it over with because the anticipation is killing her, the fear of the unknown is killing her. He leans his forehead against hers, his breathing becoming heavy as his eyes linger on her lips, physically restraining himself from taking his liberties before his eyelids flutter shut and he withdraws his hand from her dark triangle of curls. "But, the Queen will not be too delighted if I skip breakfast… again," he says and can't help himself from pressing a kiss onto her cheek, trailing his tongue down her jaw and pulling away.  
Clary slips away from the cage of his arms, her back turned to the prince, knowing that he's watching and she slowly slides her thumbs into the bottom of her panties, pulling them out from being ridden up, letting it snap back against her rear with a satisfying crack against her taut butt. She can practically feel the prince drooling. She looks back over her shoulder with a seductive smirk. "I think I'll go back to bed. Enjoy breakfast."  
And she stalks back to the prince's bedroom, truly wanting to go back to sleep but not having been entirely comfortable with the prince draped around her earlier. She closes the door behind her, plunging the room back into darkness and only just realizing that Silver has followed her in. She falls back into bed, Silver jumping up on the bed and curling beside her. Not ten minutes later she hears the prince come in, letting light flood the room. Silver stays curled up beside her and she stays curled under the wonderful silk sheets as she feels the prince slowly crawl his way up the bed, coming to straddle her body, turned on her stomach as she plays the unconscious girl.  
She feels him lower her body over hers, burying his nose in her undone hair. She takes a deep breath, pretending to wake, and turns on her back, smiling up at the rather hard prince and running a thumb over his cheekbone. "Back so soon? Could you not wait to taste your precious virgin?" She says teasingly, breathing out her words, mocking him ever so slightly but that is one of her lessons. Mockery to a certain extent gets the men hot and bothered, trying to outwit the women they intend to bed.  
"I still cannot wait nor bear to be away from her, which is why I'm delighted to have learned that you were meant to attend. Tell me, my precious virgin, did this little detail happen to slip your mind?" He asks, dipping his nose into the curve of her neck, grazing it along her skin. He draws back to smirk at her. Clary dons a coy smile, shrugging one shoulder tiredly. "It may have been mentioned by your squire. It may not have, it was dawn when the message was given to me." Clary gives a tired sigh. "I was tired, my prince, hence my presence in bed which you so rudely interrupted."  
The prince's eyes flick to Silver, still sleeping beside her then back to her. "It seems my dog gets more affection in bed from you than I do. After the breakfast that you seem so set on not attending, I shall have to right that, no?" He says, settling his erection between her thighs through the comforter and thrusting slowly forward, teasing her deliciously through the sheets. She gasps in pleasure despite the small spike of fear and anticipation.  
"Whatever," she hisses in pleasure, closing her eyes and tipping her head back. "My prince… desires."  
He growls low in his throat. "Sadly, at the moment I cannot have what I desire," he says, punctuating his words with another stroke. "So why don't you go dress and meet me in the living room?"  
He mercifully pulls away, running a finger down the side of her jaw. "I am but your humble servant," she whispers, even though her mind is rebelling against her statement.  
The prince pulls away, rolling off the bed and giving a short whistle to call Silver off as well. The wolfhound leaps from the bed just as Clary slides out, placing her feet on the cool hardwood. The prince's eyebrow rises and Clary slips past him to the bathroom, her seductive smile fading. She won't feel right being presented to royalty, she doesn't think she's even fit for royal presence besides the bedroom. She's a mud-blooded nobody, not the descendants or relatives of royalty. She's a street rat.  
She quells her fear and disgust for herself and the self-righteous prince whose needs she has to attend to for the rest of her life and strides into the bathroom, pulling out a dark blue sundress with a white belt around the middle. She pulls it on, looking at herself on the mirror and feeling completely inadequate as she puts on light makeup and slips on her two inch, blue heels to match her dress. She combs out her hair, plaiting it over her shoulder before clipping a small flower ornament to the end.  
She looks at herself in the mirror, hoping this breakfast will go by quickly and without incident, before slowly forcing herself to turn the bathroom door handle and meet her prince in the living room like she was told. She finds him in a white button up shirt and tan slacks, nothing done to his hair, leaving it wild and gorgeous. A smirk lights his face as he sees her emerging from the hall and she throws her shoulders back, forcing her good posture on her body as she was taught and linking her arm with the prince's offered one.  
He says something in the same language Simon had spoken and his two dogs jump from the couch and fall into step behind them as he leads her out of his apartment and down his personal hall, across the bridge that does span the throne room, but he's moving too quick for her to get a proper glance at it, and down an elevator she hadn't seen last night. Of course the castle has modern amenities.  
He slips inside the mirrored elevator, pressing and unlabeled button, and the doors slide soundlessly closed, the elevator cables gliding noiselessly against each other as the elevator goes down. The second the doors open Clary wants to bolt back upstairs, away from the formality and people. She hasn't realized it but she isn't one for crowds. This is only because Valentine has kept her in seclusion, save a few students with each lesson, most of her life and she doesn't think she's very good at talking about anything other than bedroom related things.  
This is all flying through her head despite the royalty lessons at Night's House, it's one of the things that makes Night's House so popular; the Escorts know how to present themselves in front of royalty. Maybe if she just withdraws herself and puts on her classic 'I-look-like-I-want-to be-here-but-really-I'm-hating-you-all-on-the-inside' mask. Yes, that's what she'll do and then she'll retreat back to the prince's room and sit on the balcony as long as the prince will let her before she's taken to bed. She forces her warm smile onto her face and throws her shoulders back despite the crushing anxiety as the prince leads her out of the elevator to the long oak wood table where his royal family is seated.  
At the head, she assumes is the king, sitting tall and proud but there's an air of kindness to him, something gentle and fatherly. His dark brown hair has a single streak of gray but does nothing to hinder his youthful handsomeness. He's eating a plate of fruit and pancakes perfectly but he makes it look like he isn't putting any effort into looking formal.  
Beside him sits a regal looking woman, sitting tall and kind, an air of authority surrounding her but a sweet motherly aura oozing from her very smile as she talks to the others sitting around the table. Her hair is a shade darker than Clary's, deep crimson with streaks of sun lightened red. When she looks down the table at the two emerging from the elevator, Clary is shocked to see her own eyes reflected in the woman's, a vibrant green but hers hold so much more wisdom and experience than Clary could ever help to achieve. There's also some hidden sadness, buried deep in her emerald depths.  
A slight frown creases the woman's lips as she sees the prince, probably late, she hasn't checked the time. The prince walks them up the table to the opposite side of the woman and seats himself and Clary on the king's other side. The wall of windows behind the king lets in the morning sunlight, allowing it to spill over everyone and give them a golden aura. The other occupants at the table look to the prince and Clary tries to avoid catching anyone's eye. Only a few other people sit at the unnecessarily long table, eating and chatting away. She sees Simon standing in the corner along with a few more servants; she flashes a smile at him, one that he returns goofily and Clary relaxes slightly beside the prince.  
As they sit down, the dogs sit behind the prince along the wall, and there are two plates brought out and placed in front of them. Clary isn't feeling terribly hungry as she can feel the questing looks from the other occupants. She knows she looks desirable, that she is supposed to have lustful looks thrown her way but still remain loyal to her patron. That doesn't make it any more comfortable, the hot gazes from the rest of the men down the table, some clearly ambassadors from other countries and others, closer to the royals, are family. She picks up her fork anyway and starts to stake the fruits on her plate.  
"You were late Jonathan," the redheaded woman says softly, curiously.  
The prince looks up with an innocent look but she can see the double entendre loaded in his eyes. "I apologize Your Grace. I was distracted showing Clarissa around the castle," he says, picking up his own utensils with the grace and regality of royalty.  
She can feel the queen's gaze flick wonderingly to her but Clary keeps her head bowed and her eyes trained on her food or the beautiful forest and city outside the window. "Clarissa," the queen says questioningly. Clary looks up at the beautiful redhead queen, a warm smile on her face, and something about the queen seems familiar but it's gone in a moment.  
"Yes Your Grace?"  
"Tell us about yourself. I'd like to know who is keeping my son company nowadays," the queen says, picking up her fork gracefully and cutting a piece of pancake.  
"There really isn't that much to tell Your Grace. Really," Clary says, her discomfort sky rocketing as her childhood comes rushing back to her unbidden and bitter. She doesn't want to talk about herself, she already doesn't feel like she belongs in this palace, admitting that she's an orphan nobody, will essentially be committing comfort suicide, she'll never belong but if she says as much that little chance gets thrown into flames.  
"Sure there is," the queen prompts. "A beautiful girl like you. There must be a tale to how you managed to end up in Idris with my son in your bed." Clary can hear the slight tinge of bitterness and she knows that she isn't welcome here, especially by the queen herself. Great.  
"Your Majesty," the prince snaps beside her, startling her slightly. "You have no claim to call me your son, but I am still the Heir of Idris and command the repsect of the court and the people. As such I would expect those invited into my company by myself. I will not have my companion, who I invited into my bed, be ridiculed and put down. Not that it is any of your business. She was welcomed here by me, the Heir of Idris. With all due respect Your Grace, you would do well to remember that."  
She can feel the tension and unspoken insults and threats behind the prince's words. How is he the Heir to Idris; Idris no less than the wealthiest, most powerful country in the world, if he is not the queen's son? The queen immediately drops the subject, the king silent beside the prince. One of the other table occupants speaks up then, trying to diffuse the tension.  
"You said your name was Clarissa?" A tall, semi Asian man with spiky black hair that looks drenched in glitter asks.  
Clary looks away from the window her gaze had wandered to, to the man. "Yes."  
"It's a beautiful name, is it English? German?" He asks, picking at the food on his plate, almost mirroring Clary's actions.  
"It's Latin actually," Clary says, remembering how Valentine went into this whole speech about how beautiful her name was when she was first dragged to his office. He went into origins and how it sounded, wholly freaking Clary out and making her think she was kidnapped just for a history lesson. The horror.  
"But you grew up in New York?" The queen's soft voice chimes in, none of the mocking or bitterness from just a few moments before evident in her voice but Clary is still cautious as she turns to the queen.  
"Yes, Your Majesty I did," she replies, shifting in her seat and taking another bite of fruit. She doesn't like where this conversation is going. This is exactly what she thought would happen, her nightmare playing itself out in front of all of them. They just don't realize it.  
"What part of New York?"  
Clary bites her lip in indecision, she isn't supposed to lie to royalty but she didn't think she had to. At the rate these Idrians are going she'll either have to lie, tell the truth and live with the guilt and shame or fake a stomach ache and leave. To her absolute horror, be it because of the queen's returned kind and motherly look, prompting her to the innocent question, or her subconscious wanting to try and please the people she'll be living with for the rest of her life, she speaks.  
"All over the state for twelve years then Brooklyn for six." Clary resists smacking herself or digging her nails into her thighs, she shouldn't have said that. Now they're going to ask why she moved around because Escorts before they become one, are expected to be from a royal family, royals do not move and therefore it is peculiar why she did. Then she'll have to tell them, have to endure the judging glances and upturned noses but what urges her on is the prince's comment last night, in the truck from the air field. I really have scored the crown jewels. He'd looked at her papers and still called her crown jewels. Peculiar.  
And just as she suspected, the king himself voices the question, his voice kind and rough, it reminds her of what an encouraging father should sound like. "Why 'all over?' Did your parents move you?"  
Her eyes flick to the brown haired king with nice, pale blue eyes and easy smile. She still doesn't understand how Jonathan can be the Heir if the queen is not his mother and the king certainly does not look like his father. "No, Your Majesty. My parents did not move me, I chose the lifestyle. I liked the change." That was a complete and utter lie, she hated the change, hated moving from foster home to foster home. Then not having a steady home to return to when she was living on the streets. Though later, in Night's House, she had longed for change, longed to be away from sex classes and bedroom training. You never know what you have until you've lost it.  
"What did your parents think about it though? Did they actually approve of you moving so much?" The queen asks, sounding aghast. "I wouldn't have let my child out of my sight in New York, with Night's House's lackeys roaming the streets."  
The irony of the queen's statement strikes home in Clary's chest and her smile turns a little sour for a moment before she fixes it but changes her mind and lets it drop completely, the age old anger and loneliness and painful question rising up in her head. "My parents did not think anything, Your Majesty," she says softly, her eyes glazing over slightly, remembering the first years in the foster homes. The only people who would take kids, especially a nobody like her, were abusive and strict. She still has the scar on the back of her neck from the cable her first foster father had whipped her with for not being quiet enough for him to hear his football match. The little scar at the base of her spine from being slammed up against the wall.  
"Surely they had to have thought something," the queen says, setting down her silverware having finished her breakfast.  
Anger wells and knots in her chest, trying to push tears out through her eyes but she pushes them down. "My parents lost their right to think anything for me when they left me on the doorstep of an abandoned apartment complex," Clary says bitterly, the words pouring out without restraint and Clary's eyes widen, her hand flying to her mouth, trying to stop the words that have already been set on the breakfast table. There is a shocked silence rounding the table, everyone sitting uncomfortably and awkwardly still. All except for the prince beside her, who only sits with a pitiful air to him. She doesn't want his pity and stands before anyone can say anything else.  
"You'll have to excuse me a minute. I'm not feeling too well." She sets her napkin on the table and curtsies to the king and queen. "Your Majesties." Then turns to the prince, whose expression is blank, the only hint of emotion in his black eyes, reflecting sadness and apology up at her. She drops her eyes, his look to painful to bear, along with a curtsey. "Your Highness," she mutters before rushing as quickly as she can in heels back to the elevator, which opens with a ding as she approaches.  
She steps in, keeping her head bowed and eyes on the floor, catching a glimpse of gray fur beside her, as she presses the button for the floor she and the prince had come off of. The doors mercifully close, letting Clary breathe a very shaky sigh of relief. She holds back her tears, refusing to sob in this castle, as she tears off her high heels and the elevator dings, the doors opening onto the hall beside the bridge. Shoes in hand she dashes across the bridge and she can hear Sterling lopping after her. Tearing down the prince's hall she shoulders open the door to his apartment, letting Sterling slip in before entering herself and slamming the door behind her.  
Blowing out a shuddery breath, she walks over to the balcony, pulling open the French doors and stepping out onto the sun warmed stone. She'd dropped her heels in the entryway earlier so the stone's warmth seeps into the bottom of her feet. The city below bustles with activity and she wishes she was down there instead of stuck inside an ivory tower with a lusty prince and his royal family that hates her. Maybe the queen didn't mean to hurt her, maybe she was merely curious. But the prince knew and the prince didn't stop her. Why didn't he stop her? She supposes she has to fight her own battles, despite how painful they are and how angry they make her.  
She sinks down to her knees, her dress riding up her legs as she settles on the stone of the balcony. Sterling comes over and nudges her arm with his nose, begging for attention or trying to give comfort, sensing her distress. She shouldn't have to share her life with these people. Why are they interested anyway? The prince has her papers, which is everything they need to know about her past, they don't need to go digging in her traumatic childhood and years of insufferably embarrassing Escort training.  
But the queen's comment begs the question. Why did her parents leave her? Why did they abandon their daughter in a rundown apartment complex? Was she not good enough? Did she do something as a child that made them give her away? Why didn't they just drop her at the foster house instead of leaving her alone, probably to die? Did they not have enough money to support a child? Or was she a mistake?  
Sterling gives up trying to get her attention and lays down beside her, putting his head in her lap as she stares blankly at the forest and city beyond, deep in thought of why she was left, other memories surfacing to rub the fact in. If her parents hadn't left her she wouldn't have been in the foster system, wouldn't have wanted to run away, wouldn't have lived on the streets, wouldn't have caught Valentine's eye, wouldn't have become an Escort. But then she wouldn't be here in this beautiful country, Idris. She barely remembers her short, brief history lessons that were given at Night's House but she remembers the lesson about Idris. That the ruling family has been the Morgensterns ever since the country was founded through war between France and Germany. The last king, she can't remember his name but he had one son with his first wife, which would be Jonathan. Then if she can remember, the king withdrew from ruling and gave the throne, and his second wife, to his brother the duke. Lucian, the king she saw in the breakfast room, the redheaded queen, Jocelyn must have been the last king's second wife. She doesn't think she had any children with the last king, which is why the prince said 'I am not your son.'  
But the line of succession for Idris was rather complex and confusing to her. It's something like if the king withdraws from the throne it goes to the next eldest brother and the Heir remains the first king's son, or maybe it was it goes to the new king's first son or maybe it was his daughter. Then for a second wife, it gets all confusing, the throne of the queen isn't really hers or she's only the princess consort. Or is the throne of the queen really hers but what about the Heir? God, her brain hurts, she's made it hurt on purpose to distract herself. She wants it to hurt.  
Idris is one of the only remaining countries holding any natural forest and wild animals aside from Russia and Australia. There was an attempted invasion about thirty years ago in search of resources by Germany but the Idrian military was too strong and pushed them out. She can't really remember anything past that, there was something about a betrothal to ensure no further attacks but she can't remember. She brings her knees up to her chest, resting her forehead on them. Sterling's placed his head under her legs now, in the little cave she's created with her legs and she can see him between the gap in her thighs.  
Her childhood flashes across her vision, pain, hunger, running, hiding. Then Valentine and Night's House. What she disliked most about the Escort training was not what the men would do to her once they bought her but how some men liked bondage, the dominant and submissive and the Escort had to play whichever role the patron desired. She never liked the idea of being restrained, tied to a bedpost, or how some men blinded the Escorts with silks and ties to frustrate them, not allowing them to see or hear where the men were on their bodies and left the women quivering in anticipation. The whole practice never appealed to her.  
She lifts her head as she hears the door in the entry way open and close but the curtains are drawn on the balcony doors so the prince will not find her unless he looks. She places her forehead back on her knees, wanting to remain quiet and hidden but she knows if the prince calls for her she will have to go. She doesn't want to experience the well-known powerful shock she will receive if she does not come when she is beckoned.  
The balcony doors behind her fall open, letting cool air drift out and fall over her back. She lifts her head and lies down on her back, staring up at the prince standing in the door way, looking down at her. She smiles up at him, making sure and taking care to wipe her depressing and traumatic thoughts from her face. It is not the prince's problem and she doesn't want to make it his. "My prince," she says by way of greeting.  
His face has not changed from the dining room and it pains her to look at his handsome face with so much feeling for her. She is only his Escort, nothing more and it does not feel right to hold the apology of a prince, especially an Heir and especially the Heir to Idris. She cannot look away though, it will draw more attention to her own feelings. She's been trained to project outward, project pleasure to her patron, not draw attention to what is in her.  
"My little virgin?" He says with a cocked eyebrow. "Is there something I can do to relieve your pain?" He asks, lowering himself to his knees and bracing his hands on either side of her head so she looks up at him with his face upside down to her. Clary's chest twists in defeat as he asks this question of her. He should not be asking to relieve her pain. It is her responsibility and obligation to relieve his.  
She reaches her hands up and cups his face, stroking her thumbs over his jaw line. "My prince," she whispers scornfully, reaching her hand up his abdomen and stroking the bulge in his pants. "That is improper of you," she says with a small smile. "The question is: Is there anything I can do to relieve your pain?"  
He sucks in a breath, smiling slyly and grasping her wrist and drawing it up to his mouth, brushing his lips over her knuckles. "I meant what I said," he says, placing her hand over her stomach then moving his hand back to brush over her cheek. "Do not question me," he says furrowing his pale blond eyebrows with a small quirk to his lips. He lowers his head and she thinks he might steal her first kiss on the sunlit balcony but he only brush his velvet lips along her cheekbone. "Tell me what you want me to do to you. I'm sure you do not lack in the knowledge of what I could do."  
Her eyes flutter shut and her breasts swell with an unknown anticipation at the prince's feather light touch. No she really doesn't lack knowledge of all the things a man can do to a woman. A man's hands can roam a woman's bare skin, pressing and caressing so many spots and eliciting so many hormones. She reaches her free hand up into his pale curls, tangling her fingers in his silken strands.  
"My prince," she whispers, her chest heaving. Suddenly Sterling is on his feet, rushing for the entry way door, barking and scratching at the wood. Clary opens her eyes, finding the prince's nose still brushing her neck, completely ignorant to his dog. Sterling continues scratching at the wood, whining and barking. Clary sits up slowly, her hand still trailing the prince's skin as she turns back to the dog, frowning.  
"Leave him be," the prince whispers, kneeling behind her but Sterling does not stop barking. "Please," Clary whispers, wanting to see what Sterling is acting up about. "I'll only be a minute."  
The prince sighs and pulls back from her neck, helping her stand. "One minute," he says, letting her rush to the door, cracking it open but Sterling pushes it open all the way, rushing out into the hall. She moves to follow him but is frozen to the spot as she sees who stands in the hallway. A tall, dark man, face hooded and eyes unseen. She would not have seen him if not for Sterling, crouched low, fangs bared and hackles raised, low growls emitting from his throat.  
The shadow man looks up, soulless white eyes staring her down as he raises a gun. She cannot move, cannot speak as she hears the safety click and he aims at her. Time seems to slow as the man's finger moves to the trigger and several things happen at once. She hears a low hiss permeating the air. The prince arrives at the door to the hall, seeing the man and shouting for guards, Sterling leaping at the man on the prince's command just as the man has fired and she thinks she screams. She can see the bullet traveling towards her in slow motion, sees the course it will take and moves just enough for it to miss her heart. She can feel the fire shooting up her arm as the bullet pierces her arm just as castle guards appear and descend upon the already bloody corpse of the shooter beneath Sterling's bloodied mouth.  
She sees them pull the dog off the man but all that is left is a bloody, empty robe, no body. She can feel the blood soaking through her fingers that she hasn't realized is clutching her arm. Everything still moves slowly, Sterling backing away with low growls, his maw dripping blood; the prince rushing over to her with frantic, angry eyes as he pries her hand away from her arm; the guards shouting at each other to secure the rest of the royals; and all the while she can't stop staring at the empty robes, mouth slightly open, those soulless white eyes boring into her, burned into her mind. Why would someone try to kill her? She's an Escort. Or were they here for the prince? Or the Queen? Any assassin could have mistaken her for the queen, what with her red hair. They could have been given a description and red hair, the defining factor. But still, had he wandered down the wrong hall? This is the prince's hall.  
What was that thing? It had blended almost seamlessly with the shadows and no one has empty, completely white eyes. No one. Why had it shot her? Everything snaps back into regular time, the guards shouting, the prince yelling for a doctor, but most of all Sterling's low growls still emanating through the hall even though the shadow man has disappeared. A cold shiver runs down her spine. She could have been killed. Worse one of the royals could have been killed. But looking at the prince now, flaming black eyes alight with anger and concern he doesn't seem to care he could have been the one shot as he waves off the guards like gnats and tugs the doctor through the cluster of guards that now crowd him into his apartment, locking everything down, shutting windows, locking doors, checking vents, talking through cell phones to make sure the rest of the royals are safe. The prince doesn't care as he's being sealed in his own room, only pulls her numbly to the couch and forcing her frozen limbs to bend as she sits down as the doctor begins taking medical supplies out of his case. Sterling paces back and forth in front of the couch, his hackles still raised, his mouth eerily bloody, looking like a deadly wolf as he slinks back and forth in front of Clary, almost protectively. The prince sits beside her, cradling her head to his chest and holding her still as she screams, just realizing that pain is lancing through her arm into her shoulder as the doctor pulls the bullet out.  
She grits her teeth as another scream pierces the air as the doctor finally yanks the bullet out, stimulating a flow of blood to trickle down her arm. She turns her face into the prince's shoulder, holding back tears of pain as the doctor wraps her arm is layers of bandages, healing salves and gauze. Sweat beads her brow as pain laces her skin and mind, the prince trying to sooth her by stroking her red hair and pulling her into his lap, cradling her against him as the doctor takes out a long needle and fills it with a greenish liquid.  
Clary's withdrawn from the doctor as soon as he had released her arm and she's tensed against the prince, frozen and curled in on herself, her ears ringing and her eyes squeezed shut as she stares into the white eyes, staring her down like he meant to shoot her, like he knew what he was doing. She can't hear anything else except for her screams, the gunshot and Sterling's growls. She's vaguely aware of the doctor and the prince trying to get her to extend her arm again for the needle and she remembers not two days ago another, much larger needle being plunged into her left wrist, injecting her chip and sealing her fate as an Escort.  
She thinks the prince manages to force her arm out far enough to allow the doctor to stick the needle in the crook of her elbow, pressing the plunger down and forcing the cool greenish liquid into her veins. All of her pain is gone immediately and she relaxes against the prince, growing drowsy and disjointed as the liquid spreads through her veins. She can't hear the guards anymore, she can't hear the prince whispering to her as he gathers her against his body and circles his legs around her, pulling a blanket off the back of the couch and wrapping her in it, she can't hear Sterling pacing back and forth or the doctor murmuring about a pain killer injection making her very incoherent, or the prince whispering soothing words against her skin, she only hears the gunshot. Echoing in her head over and over; her question repeated over and over.  
Why did he shoot me? Why did he shoot me? Why did he shoot me?  
The ringing in her ears finally fades, the gunshot reduced to a dull throb in the back of her mind and she's aware of the guard presence in the room. Two at the balcony, two at the door, two on either side of the couch the prince cradles her on. Sterling still paces back and forth in front of the couch, growling at even the guards if they come too close. Clary's thoughts seem very jumbled to her as she clutches the prince's button up shirt, her nose pressed against his chest as he runs his fingers through her red curls.  
She can't think straight as she lifts her head to look at the prince who smiles warmly at her, still clutching her body to his. Bitterness rises in spite of herself. He only cares because he almost lost a six million dollar investment, that's all. He doesn't actually care for her, she's only here for his pleasure and the sooner she learns that the easier the rest of her life will be. She frowns at the prince and he only hiccups a small laugh, running his thumb over her lips.  
She can't remember what happened. Why are guards here? Why is Sterling bloody? Why is the prince holding her on the couch? And why the hell does her arm hurt? "What happened?" She slurs, annoyed to find her voice unclear.  
"You'll remember later, my sweet," the prince says, tracing her bottom lip with his thumb. "Just go to sleep and I'll explain when you wake up." Clary's eyes are drooping and she feels rather tired but something feels wrong as she nods tiredly and lays her head back against the prince's chest, tucking her nose into the curve of his neck. The darkness pulls at her, she'll remember later.  
She wakes up nestled against something warm and smelling of darkness and spices. She groans, shifting against the warmth and slowly prying open her eyes. She's vaguely aware of her arm throbbing, she looks down at it to see bandages wrapped around her shoulder. She remembers, the man, the shot, the white eyes. She fell asleep with the prince holding her. Why did he bother holding her? It's just a bullet hole. Okay, maybe it's slightly more serious than Clary wants it to be but why is he still holding her?  
She lifts her head, surprised that the only pain she feels is a slight throb in her arm. Sterling sleeps in front of the couch on the floor, his fur shiny and sleek, no trace of blood left on him. She turns her face to find the prince asleep, his head leaning against the back of the couch and his arms securely wrapped around her waist. She rubs her eyes, looking around at the security guards, standing silent and vigil as their prince sleeps. She squints at the late evening light spilling in onto the tile floor then at her prince, clutching her waist and holding her to his chest.  
She reaches down to the prince's laced fingers, quietly, slowly pulling them apart and sliding her legs off the couch. She has to admit, her prince is a very heavy sleeper, she brushes a stray curl of pale blond hair back from his forehead. Looking up at the emotionless security guards she scrunches her nose and slips past the sleeping wolfhound at the foot of the couch back to the bedrooms.  
She moved her duffel bag into the prince's room earlier and she walks in to find the messy bed from earlier made and her bag empty, the closet left slightly open to indicate that her belongings have been hung. She opens the closet door all the way to find a full walk in with room to spare. There's a little couch in the middle of the room, surrounded by circular hanging racks hung with rows and rows of suits and slacks, t-shirts and designer jeans, sweatpants and sweatshirts, shorts and tank tops, really it goes on and on and on but one section has been cleared out in anticipation for the shopping trip the prince had talked about in the truck. The three dresses she brought with her, the dorm shirts and her sleep shorts hang in the empty section, pitifully alone.  
Clary rolls her eyes at the excess the prince has at his disposal as she slips back out into the bedroom, finding her book and bathroom products still tucked inside her duffel. She supposes she'll go put them away, if only to distract herself from the gunshot still echoing in her head. In the bathroom she finds the opposite vanity cabinets empty for her use and she fills the mirrored shelves with her things. Her arm twinges slightly but she ignores it, finishing putting her things away. Her eyes flicker to the movement in her mirror, the prince sliding into the bathroom and stalking up behind her with a sleepy look on his face with his sleep mussed hair and wrinkled button up shirt he looks devilishly handsome without trying. She's stretching up to the top shelf to put her hair brush away when the prince snatches the brush out of her hand and placing it on the shelf for her then settling his hand on her upper arm, the bandaged one.  
"You really shouldn't be using this arm," he murmurs, pushing her arm down and holding it against her body. She looks at the prince in the mirror, finding his sleepy smile lowering itself to her shoulder where he sets his chin.  
"What should I be doing with it then?" Clary asks, lacing her fingers with the ones holding her arm to her body. She meets his beautiful black eyes in the mirror that are currently wandering her body. When the prince doesn't respond she moves her free hand to the side zipper of her dress, pulling it down. His black eyes widen.  
"What… are you doing?" the prince asks, his hand automatically racing to the strip of bare skin on her hip and begins tracing circles there.  
"I'm taking a shower. Care to join me?" She asks with an eyebrow raise and brushes his hands off of her so she can step away and shrug off her dress. The prince's eyes drop down to her breasts, held in a black satin bra then fall down her stomach to what is hidden beneath her panties. He seems awe struck, so she decides to help him. She steps up to him and pops the first button on his shirt. Her eyes flick up to his to see his reaction. He's still staring at her breasts, though they are nothing out of the ordinary. She looks back to his buttons and pops another one open, looking back up to him.  
His eyes have moved to her arm, where the bandage lies and a flower of red is beginning to bloom. His eyes close and his hands come up to gently wrap around her wrists, stopping her from unbuttoning anymore. "As much as I would love to…" He bites his lip, his eyes still closed in exasperation and she can feel his groin tightening. He opens his eyes and looks down at her big, green doe eyes. As much as she was unwilling to share a bed with him earlier she still can't get the vision of the white eyed shadow out of her head, or the hiss that came from it, or the gunshot that pierced her arm. Maybe letting the prince bed her will distract her from the disturbing images and sounds, maybe the pain of losing her virginity and the pleasure coming afterward will distract her.  
"I need to call the doctor to replace your bandages," he says hoarsely, sliding his arms around her waist despite his words, drawing her closer, holding her to his partially exposed torso. He buries his face in her curls, breathing slowly and deeply.  
"My prince?" Clary asks after five minutes of silence and stillness, the prince holding her closely, like a lifeline. She reaches up and runs her hands along the back of his neck.  
"I need to keep you safe. You're my responsibility and you almost died," he whispers, shaking his head slowly and brushing her neck with his nose. "I was only shot in the arm," Clary says quietly, tracing her fingers along the nape of his neck where his pale blond hair curls. His arms tighten around her possessively, protecting her with his own body and Clary wants to recoil from the claim he's placing over her. Disgust coils under her breasts. You're my responsibility. She is no one's responsibility, she raised herself on her own. She hasn't relied on anyone for anything her entire life and she isn't about to start relying on some spoiled prince to take care of her. She pulls back from the prince, gently brushing off his arms from around her and bowing her head. "I'll just go shower off then. Go call the doctor if you want," she says quietly, turning to the shower and opening the glass door before stepping in and turning on the shower head. The hot water sprays against the stone wall as she unclasps her bra and takes off her panties, flinging them over the top of the glass door.  
She carefully unwraps her bandages and finds a thin stream of blood flowing from her bullet wound. She purses her lips as the gunshot goes off in her head again, the hiss sounding before the shot. Was the shadow trying to say something? Or did it just hiss in triumph as it pulled the trigger? She quickly washes the blood splatters on her body away and scrubs her hair, tying it up afterward. She wonders if sex will be pleasurable for her. If having a man thrusting in and out of her body while he ravages her neck and mouth will be a good experience for her. Sex is supposed to produce a pleasure hormone yes, but the ways a man can thrust into a woman can be anything but. Will this prince be violent? Taking his own pleasure and leaving her to suffer through her pain alone in bed afterward or will he be passionate and fiery and enjoyable or soft and pathetic, not giving her any pleasure he takes for himself? She brushes away the last one, from what she's seen of his body, his personality, his power, there is absolutely no way for the prince to be anything less than powerful. She lets these thoughts plague her mind, digging up worry and anxiety, completely preferring it over the eerie gunshot and shadow in the hall.  
She steps out of the shower, wrapping a towel around her chest. She gasps as she feels arm encircle her waist, pulling her mostly naked body back against a firm, very hard one. The prince fingers her upper arm, around her bullet wound that still bleeds slightly. "I told you not to be using this arm," he whispers in her ear.  
"How else was I supposed to shower?" Clary asks, her voice soft and quiet, her head hung low as she feels the prince's warmth seep into her. His hands run down her toweled body and his fingers brush her thighs.  
"I could think of a few ways," he murmurs into her neck. His hands round the front of her thighs and inch closer to her core. She arches her back against him, leaning her head back against his shoulder. "But right now, you need to go get bandaged again." He slides his hands up her thighs, her torso and takes her small hands, lacing his fingers through hers and turning her around. He sees her disturbed, solemn expression and purses his lips. He drops her hands and cups her face with his large, callused hands, brushing his thumbs over her cheekbones. "Are you alright?"  
Clary immediately wipes her face of emotion. It isn't the prince's problem; she doesn't want to make it his problem. She smiles warmly, injecting as much normalcy as can be expected from someone who was just shot. "I'm fine," she says, removing his hands from her cheeks and slipping out into the hall and back to the prince's bedroom. She quickly pulls on a dorm shirt and sleep shorts over her bra and panties. She avoids the prince's gaze as she walks out to the living room, where the guards still stand vigil at the balcony and the doors. She sees the doctor standing in the entryway and the prince beckons him over. Clary stands uncomfortably as the doctor applies healing salves and layers of bandages.  
The prince stands beside her, watching her with a droll expression and Clary, starting to squirm, flashes as sexy smile at him. He immediately loosens and smiles back, his eyes travel around her body and she settles back into some comfort, the familiar wandering gaze of a man caressing her skin. The doctor pulls out another needle filled with the green liquid from earlier. He sticks the needle in her arm, pressing the plunger and the pain disappears. "Is that all?" She asks sweetly of the doctor. He nods and Clary turns to the prince, still watching her. She rises on her toes and kisses his cheek. "I'm going to bed," she whispers. Before I pass out again. "If that's all right with Your Highness?" She wanted to watch the sunset again but it's already dark outside then the stars but after the assassination attempt this morning, she doesn't think anyone is allowed in or out of the castle.  
He fits his hands to her hips, squeezing once and kissing her cheek like she did him. He holds her for a moment, setting his chin on her shoulder. "Yes. I'll be in later. Goodnight, my sweet." He lets her go and she slips off to the bedrooms but she pauses in the hall as she hears the prince and the doctor talking. She's curious as to what they're saying. She isn't meaning to be nosy or secretive, she just likes to hear the prince's deep voice. She wants to know how he interacts with other people when she isn't around.  
"The pain medicine doubles as a regenerative," she hears the doctor say. "Therefore the body's healing processes are sped up and it will make her very drowsy like you saw this morning. I would refrain from any… begging your pardon for my bluntness, sexual activities until tomorrow night. She should be completely healed by then."  
"Yes, thank you. You may go," he says and she can hear something in his voice that makes her want to hold him to her chest and stroke her fingers through his hair. She hears the doctor leave. "How fares the queen?" She hears the prince ask of what she assumes a security guard, very formally.  
"Well; you are the only member of the royal family on whom an attempt was made Your Highness."  
She hears an odd silence stretch out and she wonders why he hasn't come down the hall to bed when he speaks again. "Do you know how the assassin got in?"  
"No, Your Highness. There was no trace of break in or bribe throughout our systems."  
"Do you know who the assassin was intentionally going after? The queen perhaps? He could have mistaken Clarissa for the queen with her fire kissed hair." Something tingles in her stomach as he hears him call her 'fire kissed.' Something about it is sentimental, personal and suddenly she can see a vivid image of the prince braced above her, his nose buried in her red hair and his man hood buried deep inside her, pleasuring her as he whispers: My fire kissed angel. Come for me.  
She almost gasps at how vivid it is but a spike of pleasure shoots through her and she leans her head back against the wall. "We know nothing of the assassin's intentions but we assume that seeing as he came in the direction of your chambers he was after you. You are the Heir, Your Highness."  
"Mm, yes. Is the equestrian tournament still on for tomorrow?"  
"No, Your Highness. The court and security has moved it back, deeming it unsafe until we can determine Your Highness and Your Highness's family are safe."  
A short silence follows and she can feel the prince deliberating something. "Make sure Clarissa is included in the protection detail. She will eventually become my wife after all."  
"Yes, Your Highness."  
"Goodnight."  
"Goodnight Your Highness."  
Clary barely makes it to the bedroom as the prince rounds the corner into the hall. She stands at the edge of the bed, removing her bra and shorts as the prince comes in. She drops the bra on the floor beside the bed like she did not notice the prince's presence and climbs into bed, drawing the covers up around her face. His news shouldn't have been a surprise. Most Escorts are taken on as permanent wives, husbands or mistresses of the royals they are bought by. She knew the moment she was bought, before that even, that she would become someone's wife. The preoccupying thought then was what kind of a person she would be forced to marry. She still hasn't decided if she likes the prince at all even. He's arrogant, dark, possessive, overzealous, over excessive and over confident. But it felt odd, peculiar, to have the word's my wife come out of the prince's mouth. He doesn't look like the man who would have a wife.  
He looks wild and free and untethered, master womanizer, total bachelor, yet he said those words like it was fact. Like she was always the one he was going to marry, the woman who would sleep with him, have sex with him, live with him, eventually rule with him. Those were all givens of this job but that would also mean having to bear his children for him. She shivers at the thought of being weighed down by a second life force, sucking on her own. It's her old instincts from living on the streets ingrained into her head; she has to be light, free, fast, all to survive but she can't imagine herself with a bulging belly. Sitting around all day, unable to do anything more than walk to the bathroom to pee thirty seven times a day.  
She feels the prince slide into bed beside her and she resists the urge to roll away from him but neither does she roll towards him. She feigns sleep, her body buried under the thick covers, motionless until the prince gently loops his arm around her waist and slowly pulls her towards him. She keeps her eyes closed, her breathing steady, as he tucks away a curl behind her ear. He traces light circles over her cheek, moving lower to her exposed throat.  
He finally makes it to her shoulder, where her bandage rests over her bullet wound. He stops his hand, nothing but silence for a few minutes before he sighs. She pretends to wake up, finding it difficult as the drug starts to take effect. She cracks her eyes open, rolling over on her good side, stretching her arm over the prince's hip. He's on his side, his head propped up on his hand "Is something wrong, my prince?" She asks, turning her head to find his black eyes in the dark. She can't see the expression on his shadow casted features but she feels his uneasiness that he's trying to hide.  
"No, little virgin. Just go back to sleep," he whispers.  
She closes her eyes, still facing the prince, though not going back to sleep. "Are you sure," she whispers. "I'm here if you need to talk to someone you know."  
"I know… I know little one. But you need to sleep now. We can talk tomorrow," he says, drawing a finger across her bare chest. She shivers, her breasts swelling as she feels his fingers dip lower into the collar of her shirt.  
"Didn't you want to do everything to me tonight?" She whispers.  
"Sh," he says, his thumb tracing over her bottom lip. "It can wait." She feels him lean in, his lips ghosting over her skin beside her ear. "Go to sleep, I'll be here in the morning."  
Something about what he just said comforts her. Maybe it's because she's still scared of what happened this morning or that the hiss still echoes in the back of her mind quietly, raising the hairs on the back of her neck but knowing the prince will be here, watching over her. She resents the idea of anyone having to protect her but after seeing the man's white eyes… She guesses she can tolerate having a strong, very possessive man holding her close to his body while seven or eight security guards watch the prince's quarters and who knows how many others guarding the castle itself.  
He knew what to say even when she hasn't betrayed any of her thoughts. It strikes her oddly how he knew what to say but even more, why he said it. He can't actually care, she's only here to provide pleasure and apparently bear his children. She's property, property that the prince intends to keep to himself. She pushes away the disdainful thoughts and lets herself sleep, cradled in the prince's arms, her head resting against his shoulder.


	3. Soul's Threats

So sorry it took so long lovelies. It's a long chapter and I've had to maintain my other story of course. THen there's the editing and rewriting and all that boring stuff but I've prevailed and voila here is your next chapter. I forgot to put in teh first chapter in my haste to get the story up the warnings.

CAUTION-

SEX-POSSIBLE NONCON

There, I think that should satisfy the people out there who are shocked to find sex in these kinds of stories, and they'll need it for this chapter. LOTS of smut. Love you all, enjoy.

* * *

Clary sits up gasping, her shoulder throbbing and a sound like a never ending whistle flying through her head. She quells the scream building in her throat as she looks around in the dark. She feels the prince beside her, still sleeping peacefully. The whistle in her head turns into a hiss, the hiss from the hall, from the gunshot.

Why did that _thing _shoot _her? _She's only an Escort. She runs a hand over her face and through her red curls that fall haphazardly around her. She's not special, an orphan. Laying back against the pillows, she keeps her hands tangled in her hair, holding it back from her face to let the cool air touch her sweaty face.

It was just a mistake, the bullet was meant for one of the royals, she just got in the way. She lets her arms fall to the sides, pulling the covers up to her chin as the panic drains away, a resolve forming in her head. She just got in the way, the assassin had to kill the royals by whatever means necessary, including collateral damage. She blows out a breath, becoming all too aware of the heartbeat of her prince.

At first it's slow, steady, like a drum, lulling her back to sleep but then it starts beating faster and faster; his ivory hair seems to glow hectically as he tosses his head back and forth. Clary sits up in concern, planning to slide out of bed to go get the security guards or the medic but the prince sits up suddenly with a stifled shout. She can see sweat beaded on his forehead in the dim light leaking from the hallway.

She reaches for him, running a hand down his bare bicep, feeling the raw power ripple through his skin as his other hand shoots out and closes around her wrist. She gasps and the prince loosens his grip, seemingly remembering who is sharing his bed.

"Your Highness," she says quietly, running her fingers over his skin and she feels him shiver. "Are you all right?" She hears him let out a shuddery breath as he releases her wrist. She feels his hand move to her cheek, brushing two fingers over the flushed skin.

"How's your shoulder?" He asks, tracing a small circle over her cheek.

"Better," she lies even as it throbs slightly.

He throws back the covers, moving his hand away from her cheek. "Come here," he says, spreading his legs for her to sit between. She obediently crawls into his lap, unfolding her legs and draping them over his thighs. She clenches her nether regions as she bares them to her patron, just as she was trained to do. Give the patron as many opportunities to take her as possible.

He slides his arms around her waist and crushes her body to him in a hot embrace. Her ear is pressed against his chest, touching the sweaty skin and she can hear his heartbeat. It slows significantly as she loops her arms around his waist. His fingers play with her curls. She breathes in the scent of dark spices and royalty, the smell over abounding wealth and it almost makes her gag but she forces herself to hold him. He calms noticeably, making her core clench as she's pulled closer to him.

"My prince?" She asks, dreading the question she's all but forced to ask. Rule 7: Times of distress call for times of pleasure. And the prince is clearly in distress. "Do you wish for me to comfort you?" She scoots forward and a shiver rips through her as she feels his hardness covered with boxers press against her womanhood, held safe by a mere strip of cotton.

His hands slide down her waist to her butt, bare except for panties. He cups her bottom, pulling her closer. "I do wish it," he says, more groans than speaks. Clary's heart drops into her stomach as she nuzzles up to him, burying her nose against his neck and opening her lips and sliding them against his throat. He squeezes her tighter, making her squeak quietly as she has to readjust and rise up on her knees, picking her lips up from his neck and licking her way to his ear. She forces herself to press her most private part against his chest as he leans his head back, letting her kiss up his jaw.

One hand creeps up from her behind into her hair. He pulls it softly, tugging her head back to bare her neck. She gasps as she feels his lips press to her collarbone, pressing her core against him. His lips skim her throat as her body shakes with anticipation, fear, and a tiny spark of pleasure just behind her naval. He stops just under her chin, her head tilted back, her body still propped on her knees and the prince has to lean up and stretch just to reach her jaw.

"But, my love, I will only accept your comfort if I know you have yours," he whispers against her skin. She stills for a moment, every fiber of her body telling her to lie to him but all her training saying he will only be angry if he finds out, she's not supposed to lie to him. Her breath hitches as she threads her fingers in his ivory hair. She stares up at the ceiling in anguish, expecting for the prince to continue without her answer.

He tugs her hair gently, nipping at her skin. She shivers as his grip tightens. "I would like to know your answer before I continue, little one," he whispers.

Clary sighs, closing her eyes to engulf herself in complete darkness once again. "My prince." She chokes on a quiet laugh. "My dear sweet prince. If I told you of every discomfort that ailed me, I'm afraid you would never fuck me if you continue to be as chivalrous as you have."

She gasps as he surges up and presses her into the mattress. He gazes down at her with midnight eyes, his mouth inches from hers. "But I want to know your every discomfort," he whispers. "I want to know all of them so that I can turn your discomfort to pleasure. I want all your discomfort washed away and subsumed by the pleasure I and I alone give you." He dips his head to her ear and she unconsciously arches up into him. "When I make you come for me, I want the only thing on your mind to be my throbbing shaft in your soft, virginal wetness. Do you understand? I want to know all your troubles so I can take them away." He licks her throat. "So please, my dear, innocent virgin, won't you tell me of your troubles?"

Clary's body hums under the prince's as he presses his lips to her throat, trailing to her jaw. She whimpers in helplessness, lacing her fingers through his silky hair. His lips move slowly over her skin, threading warmth through her body and pooling in her pelvis. His body is flush with hers from her breasts to her thighs and she can feel his hardness pressed right where she aches.

"I'm afraid of the pain," she breathes, letting her words pour out before damning the rest and revealing what truly lies in her mind. "I'm afraid you'll hurt me."

She tightens her fingers in anticipation of the prince's scolding words to come against her irrational fear but he only presses his shaft harder against her core, making her arch up again.

"I'd never hurt you little one," he whispers. "When I take you, it will be gentle and pleasurable for us both. As I slide myself into you, it will be slow, so that you can feel every lick of pleasure I will draw from you."

Clary shudders at his words, wanting and not wanting to shove him away. His hot breath fans her neck and his strong arms surround her as he braces himself on the bed. She can feel his defined abdomen pressed against her stomach and she feels very _soft_ compared to this prince's toned, muscled, powerful body. She feels him draw his mouth away from her neck, leaving behind a cold spot and she wishes he would cover it again with his hot lips.

His face hovers millimeters from her own, his nose just brushing hers. She can feel his penetrating gaze practically incinerating her shirt before it moves back to her eyes. He moves upward, making her gasp as he rubs his manhood against her. His eyes drop to her lips. Her cheeks flush.

"I'll have to wait till tonight, little one, but I do not think I can wait to taste your lips." His eyes are hungry and lustful. "May I take my first liberty?"

Clary bites her lips instinctually and she feels him harden, his eyes still locked onto her lips. What will a kiss feel like? Will she like it? Will it be rough and gross or soft and meaningful? Who is she kidding? Nothing in this life is ever going to _mean _anything. She's a glorified whore.

"I am but your humble servant, my prince. Take from me what you wish," she whispers, draping her arms around the back of his neck and parting her legs for him. The prince's gaze lights with a black fire, blazing through his eyes and down his body, tightening his boxers. He leans down slowly, tilting his head and brushing his velvet lips against hers. Clary shudders at his teasing touch, her breath catching in her throat before he finally presses his lips completely against hers.

She freezes at the sensation, living in the feel of a man's lips moving against hers with care and skill. He's definitely kissed women before and he certainly isn't a virgin. He opens his lips on hers, teasing her lips apart with his tongue. He slips inside her mouth, tasting her, as he takes a deep breath through his nose so he can continue his work without breaking his kiss. His teeth close gently over her bottom lip and pull softly, making her moan quietly. His lips move expertly against hers, like velvet sliding over silk, while she clenches her fingers in his hair.

He lays claim to her lips, just as he'll lay claim to her body. He's made it plainly clear that she is his, no one else's. She moans as he takes one of her legs and drapes it over his hip as he presses forward, rubbing deliciously against her core. Finally, after moving his lips over hers, endlessly drawing at them and making her delirious, he pulls back. Clary's breath comes raggedly as the prince traces her swollen lips with his thumb.

She closes her eyes to savor the sensation of the kiss he gave her. That was better than anything she could have imagined. The thought of a man's tongue pressing against hers never appealed to her but the prince's tongue… she shudders as the ghosting feeling of him touches her mouth. The prince brushes his nose against hers and presses his still hot and swollen lips to her nose.

"How was your first kiss little one?" He asks, his lips gliding down to ghost over her cheekbones, his hips still moving deliriously slow against her core. Something about being called little one makes her feel… odd. She never had anyone to coddle her or grant her the luxuries of childhood. She never had protection, but the prince's words promise exactly that. Protection. He's claiming her as his own charge to look after and it comforts her in a peculiar way to have the prince guarding her yet at the same time her mind is rebelling against itself, saying it doesn't need protection from anyone. Not now, not before, not ever.

All Clary can do is murmur something unintelligible as the prince's mouth sweeps over her skin in a fiery path. His rough hands slide up her body, his own body braced on his knees. His thumbs brush the sides of her unbound breasts, making her tingle with sensation. His mouth stops at the collar of her low hanging dorm shirt, right at the tops of her breasts. They swell with the proximity of the prince's mouth and all the torturous things he can do to her with it. He places a hot, open mouthed kiss on the tops of each breast before sliding his chest back up her body and capturing her lips in an upward motion, making her head tilt back as he claims her lips once more. She moans at the sensation of his teeth tugging at her bottom lip as his tongue presses into her mouth. Her hands come down to cup his face, one of them cupping the back of his neck, holding his lips to hers as he ravishes her mouth with a white hot passion to match his white blond hair.

She reluctantly allows him to pull back with a short, final kiss to her lips before he pulls her up from the mattress to sit in the midst of his legs once more. She runs her hands up his bare chest, watching her fingers dip and curve over the hard muscle there before lifting her hot gaze to his equally black eyes. "Are you comforted now, my prince?" Clary asks breathlessly, biting her lip as she can still feel the prince's own teeth tugging at it, drawing her deeper into some sort of drunken, pleasure ridden stupor.

He cracks a sly smile, running his hands up her back, under her shirt and over her warm back, sending shivers over her skin. "Not as much as I will be tonight," he whispers hoarsely and she can feel how tight he is, pressed against her and she is amazed at the prince's patience in abstaining from taking her innocence this long. She's impressed. She smiles up at him as her hand grazes over the fine dusting of silvery hair over his chest.

He leans down to kiss her again but she pulls back with a coy smile, provoking the prince to tug her closer to him, making their upper bodies almost completely flush. "Where do you think you're going?" He asks quietly as she leans closer to his lips, teasing him the way she was taught to, drawing out the tightness in his groin and the pleasure she knows he's getting out of her keep away game.

"Why don't you come and find out," she whispers before pulling back and slipping off the bed, racing to the door in nothing but a dorm shirt and silk panties. She hears the prince's throaty growl of approval as he slides out of bed to pursue her. She races down the hall, the lights blinking on as she goes, the prince's bare feet padding down the hardwood floor to follow her.

She's brushed thoughts aside of the gunshot that throbs lightly and the shadowed eyes. She lets herself smile a little now as she rounds the couch. The guards have retreated to the outside of the doors and balcony, leaving the suite empty except for the prince and herself. Grasping the back, she watches the prince run out of the hallway. Sterling is still passed out on the floor in front of the couch while Silver is curled on the cushions, obviously banished from the prince's rooms in case they brushed against her wound and caused her pain.

They do not stir more than to raise their heads in acknowledgement of the prince and his play thing before going back to sleep. She flashes a smile at the prince as he eyes her behind the couch, clearly enjoying her game. He starts to round the couch and Clary moves to the other side, placing the couch between them so the prince is now behind it while she is in front. Sterling sits mere inches from her feet. He bites his lower lip and moves to his right, she moves to hers, keeping the same distance between them.

He takes another step and Clary takes another, letting a small giggle push through her throat as he rushes around the couch and Clary just manages to avoid his grasp. She laughs at the frustration she can see in the prince's face. She's completely capable of keeping away from the prince if she wanted to but her instincts, her training now ingrained in those instincts, forces her to let the prince's arms encircle her waist and pull her back against him as he lunges forward.

She giggles as the prince buries his lips against her neck, drawing at the skin with his hot lips. His hands fist in the shirt near the tops of her thighs, pulling her back against him, flush with his abdomen. She sinks back into him, leaning her head against his shoulder as small bursts of pleasure roll through her. Her laughs fade into gasps as the prince's hands slide closer to her core, his fingertips sliding into her panties. She settles her hands on his wrists, stopping his progress.

"You said you would wait," Clary says in a sing song voice, turning her nose into his neck.

He growls in his throat. "I said I would wait to take you, not to tease you. Don't you want me to sink my fingers into your wet heat and pleasure you little one?" Clary stifles a gasp at the image and sensation the prince has just presented her with but she digs her nails into his wrists. She isn't ready for that, she isn't ready to have a man's, especially this man's, fingers in such an intimate place doing such intimate things to her when she knows she's still only a bought toy; a very expensive toy but a toy all the same.

He makes a small surprised noise at her continued capture of his hands. "Do you not want to play, minx?" He loosens his grip slightly. "Does your shoulder hurt?" His hands take on a less sinister motion, more caring, as he slides them up to her hips, turning her slowly. Clary puts a small, regretful smile on her face, even though she isn't regretful she just didn't want him touching her there even though she's going to have to let him, he did pay for it.

"Sorry," she says sheepishly, only now noticing that the morning sun is just peaking over the Idrian Mountains.

His face contorts with scorn. "Don't apologize." His face softens and he cups her face with his hands, brushing his thumbs over her cheekbones. "You just need to tell me when you're hurting." He leans down, brushing over her lips with his. Her eyes flutter closed. "And I'll make it all better," he whispers before taking her lips, brushing his tongue over her lips before she gives and opens her mouth to him. His arms lock around her waist and pull her closer to him, making her squeak quietly but only slips her arms around his neck.

She rubs her thumbs over the nape of his neck, making him moan into her mouth. Feeling satisfied with her work, making the prince bow to her prowess instead of the other way around, she pulls back. The prince does not look pleased about this and leans down again to finish his work but she pulls back, increasing the prince's frown.

"I'm hungry," Clary whines, sounding slightly like a child.

"So I am," he whispers hoarsely, staring at her lips like a starving animal. "I'm starving."

She hits him lightly on the shoulder with a shy smile. "Not like that." She spins out of his grasp, drawing the attention of Sterling, who pulls himself off the floor and follows her to the kitchenette. Clary pulls out an apple from the fridge and bites into it. The prince comes over to the opposite edge of the counter and circles his fingers around her wrist, holding her hand in place as he leans over the granite and takes a bite of her apple for himself.

"Hey!" She says, snatching the apple back as she watches the prince chew and swallow the piece of her apple he took from her. The prince straightens, casting a hot gaze across her body.

"Hi," he says before circling the counter and digging in the fridge himself. He bends over, giving her an amazing view of his luscious rear. Oh and those muscled thighs flowing out from his boxers, it's enough to make her shiver. Enough then to make her blush in shame and turn away, biting into her apple again as she falls down onto the couch.

The prince settles next to her sometime later, smelling like spices and fruit. She's finished her apple, setting the core in the trash bin beside the couch. The prince reaches across her to her opposite hip and pulls her across his body, settling her on his lap. She splays her hands over his chest and she keeps her eyes pinned down on his abdomen, not wanting to meet his gaze; worse she isn't allowed to meet his gaze. It's a sign of submission, one she was taught so early that she practically forgot it was a rule. She hates it but all her training is so ingrained in her instincts that it's hard to resist the urges of obeying, of submission.

She has a whole life of servitude ahead of her anyway, she has to get used to it. So she keeps her head bowed and body relaxed. The prince's hands slide up her body, caressing it with his masculine heat. Her breasts swell in anticipation as his thumbs graze the sides then continue up to her neck, cupping the back of her head and pulling her down so their foreheads touch.

"Why don't you look at me?" He asks quietly, skimming his thumb back and forth over the nape of her neck. His mouth is inches from hers, blowing hot breath against her face. She closes her eyes and moves to bury her nose in his neck, sliding her hands around to his back.

"It's a sign of submission," she murmurs, her cheeks flaring red in shame. "I'm not supposed to look my patron in the eye. Unless of course my patron gives me express permission to do so." It makes her gut twist to admit this, but she does not let her body or face betray any of the shame within her. The only hint is her rose pink cheeks flaming with blush which is why she is hiding her face in his lovely, fruit and spice scented neck.

"Well I think-"

Clary cuts him off with a fierce kiss before he can delve into the details of her past and the House she was raised in. She presses into him, sliding her hands under his boxer's hem, slipping them around and moving them to his manhood. He moans deeply as she closes her hands around him.

"Oh Angel," he groans against her lips as she begins to stroke him. Her hands masterfully wrap around him, using her soft hands to manipulate his hormones to cloud his mind as she kisses him blind. "You taste like apples," he pants, his own hands slipping under her shirt and into her panties, cupping her rear to press her closer to him as she sheathes him with her hands.

"And you of spices, Your Highness," she whispers against his lips as she presses her tongue into his mouth, reneging her admittance of submission to take over the prince's body and block out the sometimes painful and always shameful lessons experienced in the Night's House. The painful life she lived before that. He has to pull back from the kiss to suck in deep breaths of air as she brings him closer to his orgasm. She moves her hands slowly over him as her mouth moves to his exposed neck, licking up his jaw and grazing her nose over the small dusting of masculine hair on his chin, indicating he hasn't shaved since he bought her.

He leans his head against the back of the couch as he experiences his first euphoria by her. He moans as she drags his last tremor from him and she removes her hands. She's slightly disgusted by the stickiness coating her hands but she quickly stands and washes her hands in the kitchen sink. She turns back and sees the prince still coming down, leaning back and moaning quietly. She strides back over and straddles his lap, grazing her thumbs over his swollen lips.

"Dear Angel, where did you learn to do _that?_" He asks, leaning into her palms, turning to kiss her open hand. His eyes are still closed as he leans forward and draws her lips to his. He moans at her apple taste and she musses his ivory hair.

"The same place I learned how to please you. Same place you bought me from my prince," she says against his lips. She lets him continue to lick over her lips, tasting, claiming, feeling as his hands caress her back under her shirt. He doesn't say anything more, probably absorbed in the feel of her and she lets their old conversation drown in the drunkenness she's forcing on her prince. She presses her core against his still swollen manhood even with the raging nerves and voices telling her not to let him inside her.

She thrusts up a few times for good measure, to insight the prince's lust but their private time is quickly interrupted by a knock at the door and an announcement of the queen. Clary has to rip herself from the prince's grasp, a very possessive grasp, to stand as the queen enters. She's dressed in a flowing green sundress, her hair braided to one side in a loose braid. Her regal gait oozes propriety and that odd motherly air. Clary bows her head in respect and her cheeks flame in embarrassment as she sees the only item of clothing is her shirt.

"Your Majesty," she says in respect, lifting her head to find the queen looking at her drolly. The prince stands and places his body in front of hers to block her mostly naked body from the queen. She silently thanks him and sidles closer to his also mostly naked body. The queen nods her head in acknowledgment to her then turns to the prince who bows slightly, careful to keep her body hidden.

"Your Majesty," the prince says, his voice no longer hoarse and husky but clearly annoyed to have been interrupted. "How can I be of service to you?"

The queen smiles warmly at the prince, none of the disgust from yesterday morning on her face when she looked at Clary present as her sweet voice fills the room. "I had actually come to see Clarissa," she says, completely surprising her. She looks up, her eyes having drifted to the floor, to find the queen's expression completely sincere. "I heard she had been shot by the assassin."

"I'm fine really. Your Majesty shouldn't concern yourself with me. It was only a nick to the shoulder," she says quietly, not wanting to draw the attention of the queen of this realm. She doesn't feel like the queen likes her too much, despite the motherly air Her Majesty gives off.

That earns a scornful look from the prince directed at her. "It is _not_ just a nick, Clarissa," he says sternly, turning back to the queen after casting her a look that says they'll talk about that later. "She was shot in the shoulder, causing some muscle damage but the doctor fixed that. She's grateful you came to check on her but she needs to get her bandages changed. Thank you for visiting Your Majesty," the prince says somewhat curtly, a tone Clary would never dare take with royalty.

The queen stiffens, nodding before leaving the suite, a company of guards following her. Clary blushes and starts to slip away from the prince. Her back is turned to the Heir and she's some ways down the hall when she hears the prince call out.

"Where do you think you're going?" Clary grimaces, she almost got away. Wiping the grimace off, she turns on her heel.

"To change?" She says, seeing the reprimand in his midnight eyes.

"In a minute. Come here," he says, gesturing for her to come over to him. She slides up beside him. "I don't want you taking being _shot _so lightly. Do you understand? You could have died, it's not something to be taken as a nick in the arm. You are more important to me than you will ever know and I will _not _have you putting your life below its worth. You're my companion now and will treat yourself as such because I will not let you treat yourself like the low life you think you are. Now sit down and stay there while the doctor changes your bandages," he says gruffly, pointing to the couch.

Clary is slightly taken aback at the fierceness of his voice but drops her gaze to the floor while dropping onto the couch with her hands cradled in her lap. She needs to stop being so bold, it's not her place to speak out against a prince, especially an Heir. Hers is not the dominate roll, which the prince has solidly secured for himself in this relationship. Damned to serve; that is her roll and her roll alone.

The prince steps up in front of her, she can see his bare feet toe to toe with hers. Two fingers crook under her chin and tilt it up to look into the prince's midnight depths. His expression has softened fractionally. "You're worth more to me than you think, little one," he whispers, leaning down and kissing her forehead just as the doctor comes in the door. The prince pulls back immediately, dropping his hand like he was caught doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. The medic bows before moving over to Clary and kneeling in front of her. She tears her gaze away from the prince and his words.

The medic is somewhat handsome, actually stunningly so. In his maybe mid-twenties, his pitch black hair sets his piercingly blue eyes ablaze with mirth and intelligence. He reminds her of Alec. His kind face smiles up at her as he pulls out bandages and gauze. "Hello, Clarissa," the man says, his voice rich and cultured with a firm Idrian accent, making his words flowing and smooth. The prince has one too, she wonders why she hasn't noticed it before.

"Hello."

"I'm Duke William Herondale. We met yesterday but I don't suppose you would remember that," he says, starting to peel away the bandages already coating her arm. This isn't the same man who came in to change her bandages yesterday but she has a vague image of black hair in the chaos of yesterday morning.

"It's nice to meet Your Grace. Though why you're attending me, I don't think I understand. You're royalty. Are you not?" Clary asks. William has pulled the old bandages off to reveal a much smaller hole than from yesterday. It is still open and raw enough to require medical attention though.

"I'm royalty yes, but I much rather prefer the occupations of a doctor. It's more interesting to tend wounds than tend the scandals of court, for me at least," he says, taping down the edge of the much smaller bandage. The ointment seeping into her skin cools the burning and throbbing, making the pain fade instantly. "That should heal by tonight completely but if it starts to hurt or bleed, come find me. Otherwise, you'll be fine and healed in a few hours."

William stands, throwing the used bandages in the waste bin and bowing to the prince. He nods back as Clary stands. "Thank you, Your Grace," she says as he heads for the door. Stopping, he turns and smiles warmly at her.

"Please, call me Will. Always a pleasure Clarissa, Your Highness." With that he left, closing the door behind him. She tilts her head to the side as she ponders why a Duke of the realm, especially this realm, would prefer a medical career over a royal one but then again, politics are very tricky and corrupt. Maybe she could make a friend out of the Duke, maybe he would share some of her views on royalty and the abundance they have and do not share. No, she could never speak her mind here and if she does say anything against the prince and his royal family, she'll be punished. Either by any who hear her or by the chip still implanted in her wrist.

She stands, planning on going back to change but feels her shirt tighten behind her as it is pulled taut against her stomach and bunched up at the small of her back. She feels large, warm hands slide over her hips, tugging her back against a firm warm body. The prince's abdomen fits perfectly to the curve of her back as he presses up against her, brushing her hands over her stomach as his strong arms encircle her waist. She forces her body to melt against the man's behind her.

His velvet mouth brushes beside her ear. "I want this shirt off," he says hoarsely and she can feel his erection against her back, growing harder. "And I want you in my bed, _now._"

She takes a deep breath as his words wash through her like a tidal wave. "But-" She begins but is silenced as his arms tighten around her.

"Don't… argue… with me. Just do it," he says, his voice forceful and husky. She barely restrains the shiver that runs through her.

"Y-Yes, Your Highness. I am to do with whatever my prince pleases," she breathes, grasping his wrists tightly before he pulls away, pushing on her rump and urging her down the hallway. In a somewhat drunken haze, she stumbles down the hallway, rushing to the prince's room. Leaning against the closed door, she takes a deep breath, clearing the estrogen fueled haze. Oh god, he's going to deflower her!

He doesn't have the patience to wait for tonight, for her to heal. He's going to take her now, this morning and she has to let him. Steeling herself, she pushes away from the door and pulls her shirt over her head. She drapes herself across the black bed on her stomach, taking down her hair from the messy bun and spilling it over her shoulders.

Is it really going to be so bad with this prince? His sexual prowess alone is enough to make her pant for him. But is he going to be rough? He certainly has the power and muscle to. The pain of one's first time is said to be untold but repaid tenfold in the pleasure that comes. It's not unheard of though for the man to treat the woman in such a way that the pain lasts; the man only takes his pleasure. She'll have to endure this for the rest of her life, her virginity was taken and sold long ago. She was condemned to this fate the moment her parents left her on the doorstep of the abandoned building.

She can remember the first cold nights, alone in her drafty bedroom, the moonlight spilling through the warped old window. She always went hungry, never completely satisfied. They always fed her but never enough, the rest was given to the other kids she had to share the drafty dorm room with. She can remember sitting by herself in the back of the room, away from the rest of the kids, satisfied to be alone with the piece of paper and pencil she stole from the store room. The leather belt cracking across her hands when the foster father found out what she stole.

She remembers being lost in the streets of New York, cold, hungry, no different from when she was in her foster home but out there, she could do whatever she wanted and whatever she needed to do. She had her own life, her own ways and Valentine came for her. She was forced to become a sex slave and now here she is, naked and served up a black silk platter for the prince of Idris's devouring. She closes her eyes as she hears the door open, bending her legs and crossing her ankles in the air, bracing herself for what is to come.

Opening her eyes, she gives the prince a sultry stare as he saunters over to her. He flips her over onto her back as he reaches the bed. She hisses in pleasure as the prince ducks his head down to her bare chest and takes her right nipple into his mouth. He uses his teeth to roll it around, his tongue flicking back and forth until it's tight and pert. His arms cage her in as he crawls up her body, his gaze like that of a predator, hunting his prey. Fear and anxiety coil her muscles at his look, her eyes widening as he tilts his head, his white silver hair tousled and sexy. The man practically oozes sex and arousal, which is pouring over her and setting her hormones ablaze.

He dips his head down to her mouth, claiming her lips, possessing her. She moans deeply, the prince obviously trying to get her hot and bothered as he traces his fingertips lightly over her chest and quivering stomach, faltering at her panties before moving to cup her thigh. He bends her leg around his waist while she crooks the other to brace herself against the bed, knowing, with the prince's power, how much she'll have to compensate to meet his thrusts. She pushes her fingers into his hair, the silken locks caressing her fingers as the prince deepens the kiss.

He fits his knee between her legs, the short hairs prickling her inner thighs, arousing her more than she could possibly imagine. His lips move over hers with an expertise that should be illegal as his hand comes up to bury itself in her curls briefly before trailing his fingertips over her trembling stomach once again, drawing slow, teasing circles on her skin. She whimpers pathetically as he removes his lips from hers. She tries to sit up to follow but he presses his finger pads against her lower ribs, gently pressing her back down. She looks down to watch him trail kisses that blaze over her skin down between her breasts. He pauses there, to suckle on her right breast briefly, making her hiss in pleasure, before moving to her stomach. He kisses each of her hips, making her even hotter where she aches for him, before he dips his tongue into her naval.

She moans at the hot sensation, arching her back. How can something as painful as deflowering come from something so pleasurable? Her leg falls from the prince's hip as he moves lower and she braces her other foot on the bed. She doesn't dare touch him, his animalistic and determined gait dares her to try and touch him, stop him, soothe him. No, he is on a one way trip that will not be interrupted so she fists her hands in the black comforter, watching as he reaches the waist band of her black lace panties. His black eyes, blacker than her panties, flick up to hers and his look alone makes her moan quietly. He dips his head down to her thighs, and she has to stifle a gasp as his teeth nip the flesh beside her core, right on her thigh.

Her hands fly to her legs, wanting to soothe the sensation between her thighs and at the unexpectedness of his actions. She doesn't want him down there, her entire body screams at her not to allow him to go down there, to touch her most private and, sadly, most coveted part of her. She's never even touched herself before and she doesn't think the prince, or anyone should be down there before herself. The prince's head shoots up, his hands, which were cupping the backs of her thighs, catch her wrists. Sitting back ono his heels, he leans down and kisses the insides of her wrists, sending fire and shivers up her arms.

She lets out a quiet moan at his devilish grin and the softness of his lips against a part of her that isn't intimate but the way he kisses her there makes her blush in shame at having them exposed. But if anyone is allowed to see them or any of her body at all, it would be the prince. He bought her, body and soul, after all. He has a right to his property.

Placing both her wrists in one of his hands, he slowly makes his way back up her body, kissing her naval, her breasts, her neck and licking his way up to her ear. Lifting her hands above her head and pinning them to the mattress, he whispers huskily, "Stay."

She wants to scream at him that she isn't his dog, but she's silenced by a burning kiss to her lips before he returns to her thighs. Starting at her knee, he licks up her inner thigh and she has to mentally beat herself back to keep her wrists where the prince put them. Using her braced feet, she unconsciously lifts her core toward his mouth as he nears it. His hands come up once again from cupping her thighs, to squeeze her butt before grasping her hips and forcing her back onto the bed.

It's torture to stay still at the prince's request as he torments her body with his mouth, so much so that she wants to scream but the prince works up to the juncture of her thighs. Her body tenses and melts at the same time as the prince presses his nose up against her core, brushing her ever so slightly through the fabric. It sends fire coursing through her body as the prince lifts his head to see her gawking at him between her legs. He flashes a devilish grin before grasping her panties between his perfect white teeth and pulling them off her legs, smoothing them down on the bed to work the piece of black fabric completely off.

Sitting back on his heels, with his tousled hair and midnight eyes, he looks like a puppy with a treat, her lace panties dangling from his mouth before he smiles at her again, tossing the panties away. She's completely bare to him and she can't help but tremble in fear and pleasure from the hot gaze being placed upon her core. She wants to cover herself so badly that her hands twitch above her and her knees bend, closing her legs to the prince with a quiet slap of skin.

The prince looks up at her with a teasing scorn, his little pet disobeying him. Her lower legs are still straddling the prince's thighs as he rises up on his knees. She's certain she looks like a cornered animal, her green eyes wide, scared and no doubt swimming in lust as the pleasure still racks her body. The prince doesn't move to open her knees, just looks down on her from his perch above her. He strokes his hands, rough and calloused, sending shiver over her skin, down her calves. His sultry looks burns her.

"Open your legs for me, little one," he says hoarsely, his voice low and rumbling, rushing through her with passion so heated, she might have climaxed had he been touching her down there in anyway. Clary has no choice but to obey as she feels her left wrist twitch in a small warning shock if she continues to disobey. She parts her legs for the prince, expecting his gaze to travel back down to that tender part of her but he keeps his satisfied gaze on her face. Somehow it manages to soothe her, with his confidence and respect oozing out of him.

For a moment, as the prince looks at her face, her expression and not her body, she almost feels like an actual human being. Like someone actually notices her for more than just an expensive whore or a street rat. But she quashes the feeling before any real hope can congregate. She knows full well she is only here to please the prince, he doesn't really have any feelings more than lust and desire for her. So she steels herself and forces her body to relax, letting her knees relax and her body to stretch out before the prince.

The prince's gaze finally flicks down to her stomach then her core before he bends down and bends her knees over his shoulders. Before she can react, he takes her into his mouth. She cries out in shock and pleasure as fire courses through her veins. She grips the sheets above her as he dips his tongue into her, swirling around and in and out. She closes her eyes as she's lost in the sensation of it. She lifts her hips, meeting him as he teases and pleases her. His tongue dips in her before pulling out and nipping at her clitoris. She writhes in pleasure as the man between her legs does the most wicked things to her.

Her stomach knots and her nerve endings fire as her hormones are set ablaze. She's never known sex could feel this good. Especially oral sex, she's always viewed it as vile and unclean but god, what he's doing to her now is unravelling her. Before she knows it, she's crying out in ecstasy as she reaches the ultimate peak for the first time in her life. For a few wonderful moments, its complete bliss as her body shudders in the throes of an orgasm.

The prince still does not stop pleasuring her and before too long she's had her second climax of her life. By the end, she's panting and sweat beads her forehead. Her eyes closed, her body falls back on the bed, having arched up in pleasure, begging the prince to give her more but she doesn't think she can take anymore, not now anyway. She feels the prince's mouth leave her and his body moving to cover hers before he takes her lips, the taste of herself still tangy on his lips as he parts hers with his tongue and presses his body flush with hers.

After all of this, he's managed to keep his boxers on. She can feel the soft fabric caressing her core, her sensitive core and she can't help but arch up into him, rubbing herself against him to sate the last little sparks of pleasure. The prince groans before chuckling darkly against her lips, returning the pressure but not moving to take off his boxers. Finally he pulls back.

"Are you scared now, my lady?" He asks, moving over her cheek to nip her jaw and suck on her earlobe. She realizes that now she's had a taste of the pleasure she's terrified of how she'll feel after he's penetrated her. She's terrified about how the prince will treat her and if she'll just be an object to him, not a person. Of course she's just a thing to him, an object of pleasure for him to seek out when his groin gets hard but she'll have to acclimate to it. It's her life now.

Clary moans as the prince nips her skin just below her ear. "No," she groans, arching up into him and pressing her naked body against his exceptionally hard one. It's a lie but a lie told to please the prince. And a lie told is pleasure sold, so says Valentine.

The prince pulls back to offer her a smirk as he runs his hands over her naked body, coming to rest over her waist. "I had to have you in one way or another little one. The anguish of waiting has never been my strong suit."

"I can see that," she says, her voice husky and silky at the same time. She reaches up to cup the prince's cheek, a gesture meant for affection but Clary always thought of it as something deeper, comfort really but the meaning is squandered with her job. "You really should fix that."

The prince grins before leaning down and capturing her lips again for a melting kiss. He pulls back after a moment. "You're mine to have when I want. I don't need to fix it."

"Possessive too," Clary says teasingly, her body starting to ache in the sweetest way and her mind starting to cloud over.

"Why shouldn't I be?" The prince asks, almost petulantly.

"Does the prince not like to share?" Clary asks, a light giggle sliding from her throat. She feels really tired all of a sudden. Sex is supposed to be very taxing, especially when it's one's first time and two orgasms were given within minutes.

"Never," he whispers. He ducks his head down, gently kissing up her throat and she actually purrs. "And I'll never have to share you, little virgin. Because you're mine and mine alone."

Clary giggles again, her eyes now closed. "Greedy, greedy. You bad boy."

"The baddest," he says, sucking on her throat until she moans again. "Go back to bed, little one. I'll be here when you wake."

Clary nods sleepily, feeling incredibly sore as the prince lifts her from the bed only to pull back the covers and set her on the soft, down mattress and silk sheets. He slides in after her and pulls her back to his front, fitting his thigh securely between her legs. His arms rest lightly around her hips as he holds her to him. She sighs contentedly, only vaguely aware that the prince didn't deflower her this morning.

Clary slides her hand over his and laces their fingers together. He's so strong and comforting in an odd sort of way. Like he's secured and confident in his sexuality and his ownership of her but he doesn't flaunt it in the way she would expect. Yes, he calls her 'his' but he does in such a way that it's meant to be an endearment, not a dog tag. His thumb brushes over her knuckles and he tucks her head under his chin.

Maybe he's not entirely as bad as she first thought. Maybe he'll actually love her… No, that's absurd. Yes, he'll love her a pet or whore but not as a person, not as herself. No one could ever love a nobody. Her heart clenches as she remembers just exactly what makes her a nobody. She banishes those thoughts, wanting to fool herself for a little while that she and the prince are two lovers who care for each other deeply and he is holding her as she sleeps because he can't stand to let go of her. With that ridiculous fantasy in mind, she slips off to dreamland, the prince's warm and comforting touch radiating all over her body.

She's pulled out of her dream by fire creeping between her legs. It burns as she comes into her senses. She's flush against the prince's warm chest, locked in place by the arm wrapped about her waist, his long tapered fingers just brushing her bare nipple. His thigh is shoved up between her legs, the crisp hairs dusting his leg brushing against her sex, making her shiver. She turns her head to find the prince asleep behind her, despite his twitching fingers by her breast and his stroking leg, pushing up into her core to pleasure her. His eyes move underneath his lids, his lashes brushing his cheeks, in the throes of a dream.

And judging from the sweat on his brow, the raging hard-on pressing against her hip, and the way his body is twitching slightly in a fluid motion, it's a sex dream. She's never really had a sex dream before, only flashes and imaginations of what being with a man would be like. Clary decides to tease him, to see how he reacts. She lightly trails her fingers over his forearm draped over her side. He makes a soft noise and shifts against her.

She turns around in his grasp then places a kiss on his bare chest, right above his nipple. He actually moans. Clary lifts an eyebrow at him before trailing her hand down his solar plexus, over his well-toned abdomen to the small trail of hair that leads to his erection. His arm tightens around her as she gets closer to him and just as she's starting to stroke him through his boxers, he throws his leg over hers and pulls her flush with him. He groans as her naked breasts press against his chest.

Clary scoots up on the bed, coming eye level with the prince. She blows a soft breath over his nose, which twitches. She almost laughs at the oddity of the prince twitching his nose like a rabbit. She blows another breath over his lips but doesn't stand to see the reaction as he surges forward and claims her lips, kissing her blind. He rolls her over onto her back, pinning one wrist beside her head as he parts her lips with his tongue. They both groan at the taste of each other and Clary realizes that the prince is no longer asleep as his other hand slips around to press against the small of her back, pushing her closer to his body and to arch her back into him.

His mouth slips from hers and moves to her neck, where he licks and nibbles until she's mewling helplessly under the prince's weight. Only now does she remember she's completely naked and the prince isn't that far behind her, with only his boxers. His hand moves from her back around to her stomach, tracing small circles around her naval before he dips his hand down and separates the folds of her body to touch her core.

She gasps at the sensation of his fingers pressing against her. She fists her hand in his hair, lifting her hips to ride his hand as he makes pleasure sweep through her body with a fiery heat. Clary moans quietly, sucking in a sharp breath as he massages her body. He's now made love to her with his mouth and with his hand and both have felt phenomenal. All that's left… is pressing against her stomach as the prince moves back up her body to reclaim her lips.

She groans as he separates her lips with his tongue, hot with his arousal as she inches closer to orgasm. She just woke up, her body barely conscious and yet the prince has already thrown her into a whirlpool of pleasure.

"Clarissa," the prince breathes against her lips as he jerks his hand up against her.

"Prince," she whimpers just before she's thrust into absolute bliss. He doesn't stop pleasuring her until the last tremor of her orgasm has been wrung from her body. She's left weak and spent beneath the prince, naked and entirely at his mercy. He still kisses her, taking what little energy she has left with his fervor. She doesn't think she completely recovered from the last orgasm he gave her and this one rocked her body to its foundations.

Finally, mercifully, he pulls away from her lips. He's breathing heavily as he presses his forehead to hers. He seems like he's holding himself back and struggling to do so. Urged on by her obligatory drive that Valentine made sure to drill into her head so she'd be a good little Escort, she summons her little strength remaining and cups the prince's face, stroking his cheeks with her thumbs.

"You don't have to wait, my prince. I'm yours to have whenever it pleases you. You don't have to hold back," she says quietly, even though her soul and mind are dragging her down and beating her for her words. She's a person too, with an opinion and body and feelings that can be hurt but did Valentine care to listen to them? No. He only got her presents and toys he thought a girl would like and she learned to keep her mouth shut because whenever she did open it to voice her opinions she was harshly slapped down for it. Will the prince listen to her opinions? Or even care about how she feels or what she wants? No. Probably not.

She'd rather keep her mouth shut and suffer in silence than be shot down for an opinion regarding something as innocuous as, oh she doesn't know, her virginity. But no, that opinion and right to it was stripped from her six years ago.

"I know little one. I just wish to make your first time special and gentle that is all. I don't know what I would do if I hurt you. And right now I don't think I have the will to be gentle." His words stun her, along with his crass comment that makes her burn in hatred, surely he doesn't mean the former though. Or maybe he just doesn't want to have damaged goods. He might want to break her in and build up her tolerance so when he does let loose, completely, she'll be used to it. She can respect someone like that, who thinks ahead but still she spits on the idea of being a sex slave for the rest of her life.

She almost bursts out in tears at the idea but she hasn't allowed herself to cry thus far. She hasn't had an opportunity to be alone, the prince seems to want her glued to his side. She wants to cry or shout or scream at the frustration of it all. She hasn't wept since she was thirteen and hasn't wanted to before this. It's not fair, why did she have to be sold off to some lusty, over bearing, pompous, pampered, arrogant, snide, wealthy asshole who thinks he can have any and everything if he throws money at it or drops his pants. Why do people have to lie so much?

Valentine told her that this life would be well and lavish but from what she's seen, it's just compensation for selling your soul out to some jackass set on defiling you. This prince is spilling lies from his mouth as he rants about how he cares for her, doesn't want to hurt her, doesn't want to see her hurt. She wants to scream from the injustice. He doesn't give a rat's filthy, furry ass about her. He only cares about the condition of his six million dollar sex toy. He'll never love her or view her as anything other than a source to relieve his sexual urges and produce heirs. She bites her lips until she can taste blood before taking a deep breath, thankful that she can disguise it as her breathlessness from his kiss before speaking.

"May I go to the bathroom then? If you're going to wait. I would like to shower if you would let me," she says subserviently, her soul imploding and crumbling with depression and rage as she forces herself to subject herself to this lust filled pig. He's no better than anyone else. That is the conviction of men, lust and sex, nothing more. And it pains her so much to have to go on her knees to this man that she's surprised a wound hasn't opened in her chest.

The prince nods and rolls off her with obvious effort. She makes a point not to bolt from the bed as she rises, aware she's completely naked and not in the least bit ashamed, being a whore and all, and walks from the room. Her heart tearing open as she walks one door down to the bathroom, where, once inside, she locks the door and walks over to the shower to turn it on, scalding hot. She braces her hands on the sink counter and looks at herself in the mirror. On the outside, you wouldn't be able to tell if there was anything wrong with her. She just looks like an Escort who's had a go round in bed with her patron, her body naked and sweaty with her red hair disheveled and messy from sleep and the prince. But inside, something is breaking. Her will maybe, her soul, her heart, knowing she'll never really be loved or viewed as more than a toy. She can see her pulse pounding in her throat and her chip warming as her oxytocin levels rise in anger and grief. Escorts aren't allowed to be mad or angry, it's not sexy or attractive. Therefore the chip monitors all hormone levels and vitals and brain waves to detect if she's stepping out of line.

She can do nothing to quench her anger and sadness though as it rises with every passing thought. It's so hard not to burst out crying but she screams shortly as the chip sends a throb of electricity up her arm. It's almost enough to make her cry. She's being punished for having emotions. She steps into the shower, the water burning her skin as it falls down her body. She's being punished for being human, for having opinions, for not wanting to be a slave and sell her body when she doesn't even get the money.

She sinks to the floor of the shower, curling her knees up to her chest and bowing her head. She bites her cheek as another shock runs through her as her anger remains high. She didn't deserve this, why did Valentine have to pick _her _off the street. She's an orphan for Angel's sake, he could have had his pick of any royal he wanted but no, he had to choose her and ruin _her _life.

She almost screams in pain as another more powerful shock makes her body shudder but she bites her cheek until she can taste the coppery tang of her blood. It's not fair, it's not fair. He should have just left her on the streets, he should have left her as she was. Anywhere is better than being a sex slave against your will and shackled to some shithead who thinks he owns everything then has the gall to feign caring about her!

She splits her lips again as another shock, more powerful and painful than the last racks her body, making her muscles convulse. She almost welcomes the pain, it's no worse than the pain of her soul being shredded by the devil it was sold to. She unfolds herself and lays flat on her back on the hot stone tile, letting the water batter her, let it beat at her, just as the prince will eventually do if she steps out of line. She knows it. He won't tolerate insubordination. She jerks as another shock runs through her and she almost cries out in pain. Her nails of her right hand are digging into her left wrist where she can feel the chip.

It shocks her again, making her body convulse painfully before she tries to force herself to calm down, it's only going to get worse. Night's House has no mercy when it comes to their rules and the appearances of their precious little whores. They are perfect and every Escort thrust out of Night's House training bears the scars to remember the rules by. Inside and out, though they take care to use their stupid cosmetics to heal all outward scars. Angel forbid any of them should have a blemish upon their skin. Fucking bastards.

She squeaks in pain as another shock runs through her and her hand clamps down around her wrist, trying to relieve the pain. She tries to quell her anger by thinking about the stars outside, how they glitter and gleam and dance around the dark blue canvas. She tries not to think about how Valentine took away her sketchbook years ago and how she would desperately love to draw the stars she's never laid eyes on, but he would have none of it.

Eventually, the shocks stop and she lies empty on the floor of the shower, the water still pelting over her. She closes her eyes, it's been about twenty minutes since she turned on the shower, the prince might come wondering if she's alright. Angel forbid he actually cares. She draws a deep breath before she stands and runs conditioner through her hair and soap over her body before turning the shower off and stepping out, dripping wet. She reaches for a towel only to see blood dripping from her left wrist, where she'd clamped her nails down in an effort to stop the pain. Damn.

She grabs the towel and quickly dries herself off before disposing of the towel and striding over to the door. Unlocking it she walks to the kitchen in search of a bandage before the prince sees her. Looking through all the cabinets she comes up empty handed as she starts on the lower drawers. Her back turned to the rest of the room, bent over she doesn't see the prince approach. She pulls out a little stick of bandage just as the prince clears his throat behind her.

She starts, spinning around and taking care to brace her left hand behind her on the counter so the prince can't see it. He's in a loose t-shirt and jeans, despite the warmth and his eyes wander over he appreciatively and she curses herself as she realizes she neglected to put some clothes on. His hands are shoved in his pockets and his posture relaxed but that of a predator that can spring into action at any moment.

"What are you doing out here?" He asks, his tone not completely in contradiction of her nudeness.

"Looking for you," she hazards, her tone nonchalant and unembarrassed by her nudity, with any luck it will distract him enough to get her out of this precarious situation.

"In the drawers?" He says, tilting his head and stepping up to her. She cranes her neck up at him, her hand tightening on the counter behind her. He runs the back of two knuckles down her throat and between her breasts that stand pert and firm in the cool air compared to the heat of the shower she just took. Her body is still burning with heat from it.

Clary doesn't have anything to say to that. She doesn't hesitate though in coming up with a distraction. She goes up on her tiptoes and kisses him. He responds immediately by taking his hands out his pockets and wrapping them around her waist. He moves though before she can protest, grabbing her left wrist and jerking it out from behind her and pulling away from her. He studies the white strip for a moment before turning back to her with an expectant look.

She shrugs. "I just wanted to know where they were," she says innocently.

"And it couldn't have waited until you put clothes on?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. He still hasn't let go of her wrist which is still painfully sore from her nails and the shocks. So is the rest of her body but not as much as her wrist.

"Why? Does my nudity bother you?" She asks.

"No," he says almost indignant before releasing her wrist and she slips out from between him and the counter. She tries not to bolt back to the bathroom. She almost does as she hears the prince's sharp intake of breath but she's made it far enough that she can rush to the separate room across from the prince's and slams the door.

No, she's going to be punished. Just like at Night's House. Valentine used to hit her because she was clumsy and opened a cut on herself. He said for every cut she opened, he would bruise her worth ten more. He always carried through on that promise then afterward, only then would he take up the cloak of a 'father' and tend her wounds. The prince will hurt her, he'll hit her just like Valentine did. Escorts are supposed to be graceful and careful with their bodies because they're regarded as treasures, marring them is considered a crime.

He's going to punish her for her clumsiness and foolishness. Just as Valentine did. She doesn't dare lock the door for fear it might heighten the prince's anger at her so she only stands away from it and braces for when he comes through the door. Clary stumbles back as the door is thrown open to reveal her prince, with his ivory hair and regal gait. He holds up his right hand, his palm coated in a thin layer of blood. She sucks in her breath, eyes flicking down to her wrist. She didn't realize that she was bleeding that badly.

"What is this?" He says, his voice deceptively calm.

Clary is shaking as she falls to her knees, dipping her head so not to meet his eyes. "I-I'm sorry. I slipped," she says, lying. If she told the truth he would want to know why her chip was going off. He might already know, he has the small, glass screen that displays her vitals and hormone levels. Looking up slightly she can actually she the small tablet peeking out of his pocket. Her heart sinks in dread.

She knows she's naked, on her knees and she hates it. She hates the degradation she's forced to go through but there is nothing she can do. She has to obey her patron or be sent back to Valentine for a much more severe punishment. She sees the edge of the glass tablet flash red as her anger builds, it's immediately squelched by fear but the prince doesn't seem to notice only holds out his bloody hand.

She flinches, expecting a blow but he doesn't move to strike her.

"Let me see," he says and she hates how his voice is still calm. She would be a lot more comfortable if he just yelled at her. Whenever Valentine got mad he was always calm and nice about it at first then he turned mean.

Her hand trembling she reaches up to place her hand in his. He tugs her off the floor, startling her and making her flinch away. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says quietly as he turns her wrist over to bare the four crescents on her wrist where her nails dug in. She seriously doubted that but she stood her ground, letting the prince examine her wrist.

"It doesn't look like you just slipped," the prince says, trying to make her look at him but she knows better. She isn't allowed. She doesn't say anything, only stands there with her head bowed and her wrist still resting in his open palm.

"Are you going to tell me what happened?"

Most certainly not, she would most likely be beaten for her answer and explanation of why she was angry. But she isn't about to say that out loud. She stays quiet again.

"Tell me, little one," he says softly, tenderly.

She still says nothing but yelps in pain, jumping away as another shock runs through her body that's still sore. She clasps her hand around her wrist. She's being punished for not answering. She looks up at the prince, hating how tortured her eyes must appear, through her red lashes.

"Is that answer enough?" Clary asks shyly, wanting so badly to run away down the hall and shut herself in the bathroom until she can overcome her anger and fear but that would take years and even then she wouldn't be able to completely forgive all that's happened to her.

He steps forward and she flinches back. Using slow careful movements, he reaches around her to the bed. She jumps as he draws a soft, furred robe around her that must have been lying on the bed in anticipation for her arrival. He drapes it around her shoulders and ties it at her waist. He kisses her forehead lightly.

"For now," he says, looking down at her. He strokes down her cheek with the backs of his finger. She struggles against herself to not flinch away, still believing he'll strike her but remains still. He reaches into the robe and withdraws her left wrist, her hand still clamping on the bandage. He slowly unclenches her fingers, still trembling, and withdraws the bandage. He tears it open, still managing to hold her wrist gingerly and removes the wrapping.

"Look at me," he says, his voice low and hoarse. Clary forces herself to look up at his face but not making eye contact. "Look at me, little one," he says again. "My eyes, I give you permission." Clary takes a deep breath and moves her eyes up to stare into his depthless black ones. She's held captive by his gaze as he uses his thumb to wipe away the little trickle of blood from her wrist. Holding it to his lips he licks it off slowly. A shiver runs down her spine at the unexpectedly erotic action. His eyes spark as he places the bandage over her cut. He leans down and gently kisses the wound, kissing up her arm until the shoulder of the robe falls away and he's reached her shoulder. She tilts her head obligingly to let him nibble his way up her throat.

"Don't be afraid to tell me if you hurt yourself," he whispers, his mouth caressing the skin below her ear. "I want you to feel safe with me. Don't tremble. I'd never hurt you, okay? You're safe now little one." He brushes a curl behind her ear. "No one's ever going to hurt you again."

Clary almost chokes on a sob. How did he know about that? Valentine only gave her bruises from time to time and that was only for a year because she didn't obey. After that she was subservient and a good student. But before that, the foster homes, it left too many scars on her. Inside and out, she still remembers the procedure that Valentine did to heal her body completely of its scars.

No, he can't know about that, it's not possible. He's just saying words to get her to stop trembling. His mouth brushes over her cheek before he kisses her gently. It's a sweet kiss, slow and comforting and it soothes the trembling of her body. When he pulls back, he pulls the robe back up to cover her and she puts her arms through the sleeves.

"Let's go eat some dinner," he says and he tilts his head back to look her in the eyes. She averts her gaze before he can see the anguish in her eyes. Bowing her head, she steps back from the prince.

"Thank you, Your Highness," she says, wiping away any bad emotion that might raise the prince's suspicion. She can't take the feeling in the prince's words when she knows it's fake. She slips past him and his hand trails across her back as she exits the room, the prince in tow.

Out in the kitchen, the prince sits down on the couch and draws her across his lap. She smiles at him in an effort to wipe away her fear and anger, his suspicion. It seems to work as he smirks back and creeps a hand inside her robe to her waist. He uses his free hand to reach over to the black wood side table where he picks up a glass tablet, much like the one used for her chip, and as soon as he touches it, images and words pop up.

Clary leans her head on his shoulder, her arms draped around his neck, and watches him swipe and select. He presses on a word in a foreign dialect and a menu pops up, with floating images of steaks and salads and some dessert food that looks like a sphere of frozen milk. She watches as he clicks on different words that she can't understand and a small list appears to the side of the screen with the items he's selected. It's frustrating frankly, that she can't understand what the words mean. She was trained in virtually every language but one of the lacking ones is Idrian. They've always been a highly developed country with their own dialect, cultures, foods, customs and have kept their language very close to themselves. She wonders why the prince knows English so well when America is now considered one of the less civilized countries despite its technology and power. It's the only country in the world that has withstood the Royal take over. Most royal families don't view America as worth their time at all except for wars, whores and money.

"What do you want to eat?" He asks, gesturing to the tablet in his hand. Clary doesn't lift her head from his shoulder. She reaches up and swipes her finger across the screen, flicking it back to the previous page he was on.

"I don't understand the words," she says, looking at the beautiful scripture. They don't even use the alphabet she's used to. They're all different symbols and letters. "Idrian wasn't in my language courses."

"Hmm," he says, bringing down a little strip with selections on it and clicking on it. All the words turn to images of gourmet dishes and drinks and wine. "We'll have to fix that eventually but for now you can look at the pictures."

Lifting her head and unlooping her arms from around the prince's neck she takes the tablet and sets it on her bent knees. She goes through and picks out a small portion of pasta and chicken with a glass of red wine before handing it back to the prince.

"That's all you're getting?" He asks, turning the pictures back to words and pressing a button before the menu and order disappears, probably down to the kitchen. Clary nods her head before she puts her arms back around his neck and resting her head on his chest. The prince doesn't seem to like that she ordered so little but doesn't say anything, just makes the images on the screen change and the big black screen mounted on the wall clicks on, showing people talking back and forth.

Clary watches in amazement, never having seen one before, as the prince flicks from picture to picture. Some of the moving pictures are of nature, like she's seen outside or of people bantering back and forth or men battling with sharp long rods of metal. He stops on a display of two men on large animals that have long noses and hair braided down their long muscled necks, standing on opposite sides of what looks like tiny grains of tan something. They hold long poles with two colors wrapped around each other, pointed at their opponents. They wear suits of metal, like polished silver that she's seen adorn the throats of princesses and queens, silver that she has tucked away in her bag as a gift from Valentine. An emerald and silver necklace. The lavishness of it had disgusted her.

"What are they doing?" she asks, watching as they urges the animals forward toward each other, lowering their poles in an offensive position. Clary's hand tightens in the prince's shirt as the wooden poles splinter as the men ram them into each other. One falls off and the other cheers victory.

"They're jousting," the prince says, albeit distractedly as his other arm circles around her waist on the outside of her robe while the one within has moved down to stroke her thigh.

"What's jousting?" Clary asks curiously. Why would one man want to ram a stick into another? They could get themselves killed… Oh, it is men doing what they've done for centuries, trying to show off their masculinity by proving who can knock the other boy off his creature with a ten foot pole. Yeah, very masculine. The prince lays his cheek atop her head, breathing deeply as breathing her in.

"It used to be an old sport from the time of the Renaissance where one man would try to knock the other off his horse. No one does it today because of the danger to the rider and the animal though," he says quietly, as though reluctant to ruin the silence.

Clary bites her lip at her next question. She hates her ignorance, she hates the sheltered life Valentine forced on her. All she knows is how to please in a bedroom, Royal histories and how to behave like a royal consort. Anything else was discarded.

"What's a horse?" Clary asks, equally quiet. The men take up two more sticks and go at each other _again. _

"It was once a widely used mode of transportation before cars. We use them for sport and entertainment now. Like the equestrian tournament that was meant to happen today. We use horses for sporting."

"Do they like being forced into a sport like that?" Clary asks and she can't help the bitterness that tinges the edge of her words.

"Horses can't speak little one. We train them and most do as their told."

"And those who don't?" She asks, lifting her head and meeting the prince's eyes.

He doesn't falter in meeting her gaze, and though her face is innocent and curious, she's inwardly daring him to say something nasty, something a master would say to his slave. His next words surprise her.

"We set them free."

Hope dares to rise up inside her chest before she takes a steel toed boot and crushes it. That could never happen to her. If she doesn't do as she's told, she'll be shipped back to America where she'll be punished by Valentine and sold off again. She sinks back down on the couch in the prince's lap, oddly taking solace at his heat and the way he's holding her, and buries her face in his neck, closing her eyes and listening to the prince's pulse beating in his throat.

He continues to stroke her thigh softly, his other hand buried in her curls and stroking the back of her neck. His touch almost makes her feel like he cares. His touches aren't lovers' caresses but a touch of someone who can comfort you. She sighs, imagining the prince really is someone who loves her and whom she loves and all they're doing is sharing an evening on the couch.

She almost drifts to sleep in the peace and quiet of his arms but a knock sounds at the door, ruining the tranquility. A large cart with platters and silver domes atop it gets wheeled in by one of the guards. Guess the castle's still on lock down. The prince sets Clary down on the couch beside him before he leans forward and presses a button, making the glass coffee table rise a few inches. The guard leaves the cart by the table and Clary notices that the prince has turned to plasma to a nature scene. She doesn't know what it is but it's green and lush and she can hear the faint cry of animals and birds.

The prince sets two of the platters, domes uncovered now, on the coffee table before taking Clary by the waist and lifting her back into his lap, her spine flush with his front. As they eat, the prince keeps one arm wrapped around her waist. The prince finishes his dish first and takes up kissing her neck, suckling her skin with his hot breath blowing across her skin. She shivers and she can feel his erection growing behind her. By the time Clary finishes her small meal, still a good quarter of it left because of her lacking appetite, the prince has left a love mark on her neck.

Ignoring him she reaches over to the glass of wine sitting on the cart. She downs it in one gulp, setting her nerves at ease and soothing the anxiety she feels at what she knows the prince is going to do to her tonight. She was always a light weight and the alcohol helps so much in way of her anger and other burning emotions. She turns in his arms to face him, straddling his waist before she takes his lips and kisses him blind. He tastes like steak and herbs as she deepens the kiss.

Slipping his hands inside her robe, he runs them up and down her body before one rests on the small of her back and presses her closer. The other one undoes the knot at her hip and lets the robe fall open. That hand slides up her bare stomach, brushing over her breasts before cupping the back of her neck to hold her close. She giggles softly as his fingertips tickle her nerves, setting her body on alert.

Pulling back, she shrugs off her robe, pooling it around her waist. The prince groans but slides his hands down her body to pull the robe back up around her shoulders. Clary whines, pulling away from his lips but he nuzzles her neck, kissing her sweetly, endearingly. She rubs herself against his swollen groin and a deep throated moan sounds from his throat.

"Not tonight. You're drunk," he whispers against her skin. She responds by slipping her hand between them and stroking him through his pants. He growls but takes her wrist gently away from him, kissing the inside of her wrist. "I want you sober when I take you," he says hoarsely.

"But when I'm sober I can't do this," she says, stroking her hips against him. He pulls away from her neck and flips her over onto the couch so he can have some semblance of control. She bucks her hips up but he pins her down by sitting lightly on her stomach so he doesn't crush her lungs. He grasps her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to look up at him. Shame washes through her as he looks at her and she realizes what she just said.

"What do you mean?" He asks, brushing his thumb over her jaw.

"I can't disobey when I'm sober," Clary slurs, trying to cover her lies. "The alcohol overrides the chip in my arm so it doesn't hurt." That's not entirely a lie, it's always sore because of the size and all the displacement of her muscles. But not what she can do.

The prince's black eyes snap in irritation. "Don't lie to me, little one," he says gently. "I'm sorry your arm hurts," he says sympathetically, kissing the inside of her left wrist. "I'll see if I can get it removed before the three months is up sweetheart. I don't want you to be in pain but I want to know what you can't do while you're sober."

He kisses her cheek then the hollow of her throat. He nudges her chin with his nose, licking up her jaw and making her shiver. "I already told you, prince. My arm hurts when I'm sober and it keeps me subservient. Why would you want to remove it?" Clary asks, purposely diverting the conversation away from what she can and can't do when she's drunk and sober. Aka giving up her virginity.

The prince traces her lips with his thumb, as though memorizing the skin. "Because I don't like to see you in pain."

Clary closes her eyes as she feels the prince's warmth pressed against her naked body through the robe. She likes how he feels pressed against her, so strong and lean. He's like a predator ready to pounce. Desire surges up within her, she wants him to pounce on her. She wants his fingers caressing her most private areas like he did the other night, she wants to feel his breath ghosting down there, sending shivers through her body.

She actually moans at the onslaught of feelings and images. And is stunned, she's never thought of a man like this, never _wanted _one to touch her. For obvious reasons, she hasn't wanted anything to do with men since they are the ones who would beat her in the foster homes, the ones who threw her out of shelters for causing trouble, the ones who captured her against her will and forced her to become an Escort. So it's almost appalling that she could want this man right here.

It has to be his physical prowess, nothing more. She means, what woman wouldn't want to bed a guy who is the Heir to one of the most powerful countries in the world and has a body made for sin with a deep, lilting accent that seems to caress her very being every time he speaks. Who wouldn't want to fuck him?

"Then why won't you let me relieve your pain?" Clary says, hand trailing down to his groin that is so hard it has to be hurting. He growls in frustration before grasping her wrist and claiming her lips for a fiery kiss. He uses her palm to pleasure himself until he's panting from it. Even then he doesn't let himself come before he pulls away, sitting back on the couch and pulling Clary up with him.

He turns her around so she's sitting crossed legged in between the prince's legs with her back to his front. He bows his head to nuzzle her neck and she shivers. He takes both her wrists in his hands and sticks them between her legs, under her robe.

"Now, you naughty girl," he whispers in her ear. "I want to just watch the television and keep your hands to yourself, like a good little girl."

Clary smiles wistfully as the alcohol runs rampant through her body. "I'm not a little-"

She gasps as the prince presses her own fingers to her core, guiding them with his own hands. She arches back against him, pulling her hands out of his grasp but he growls his disapproval. Taking her hands back in his he guides them back down to her core where he slowly massages her clitoris.

"I told you to keep your hands to yourself," he growls, pressing harder against her and eliciting a moan. "This is your punishment for lying to me," he says, just before she's about to climax and he draws her hands away from herself, pinning them on her thighs so she can't relieve the almost painful ache. She whimpers in protest as the feeling builds but then slowly, torturously dissipates. He uses her hands once again to pleasure herself until she's on the edge of climax again. She whimpers as she tries to get that last stroke in but the prince over powers her and tugs her hands away, pinning them to her thighs again.

"Care to tell me the truth now?" He asks, squeezing her hands tightly as he kisses her neck. She whimpers again as his hot tongue draws up the side of her neck and he finishes by blowing a breath behind her ear. She shudders powerfully as it's almost enough to push her almost into bliss. Damn him for being just as good as her at sexual encounters.

"I already did," she whines, her head fuzzy from her drink. She starts panting as his nose brushes over her skin and he kisses her ear. He moves down and lightly nips at her shoulder. She tilts her head to the side as he licks up her throat.

"No, little one, you didn't. I'm not stupid and I'm not blind. I want you to tell me. What do you have to lose?"

"My nonexistent freedom, my dignity, my virginity," Clary whispers, her tone turning serious before the alcohol takes over again. "You're being too serious," she giggles, leaning her head back on his shoulder to look up at him with a wide grin. "You need to smile more." She gasps as a thought comes to her, she pulls out of the prince's grasp and tugs him off the couch, dragging him over to the balcony.

"Where are we going?" He asks, complying with being dragged along behind his little bought whore.

"We're going to talk to the stars," she says excitedly as she opens the balcony doors. She finds one of the security guards standing out there. She pulls up short and frowns at the guard, getting distracted but the buzz in her head makes it all go away, her worry, her anger, her fear. "He's so serious," Clary whispers loudly to the prince who only chuckles softly. "You need to smile more too," she says to the guard. "You're just like the prince, he never smiles either. Well, except during sex," Clary blurts and keeps on going. "Why is it all men smile like wild dogs when they see a naked woman? It's not like there' anything to them. If a woman's getting naked with you, you either bought her or she's just as horny as you. That's nothing to smile about. I mean really," she says and drops her robe to expose her nakedness. The guard averts his eyes. Clary looks down at herself. "What's so special about all of this, you can just pleasure yourself you know. You don't need another person. Which reminds me, where the hell does Night's House get it's justification to stealing little girls off the street? Really, they can't just rip girls from their own lives and force them into prostitution. Fuck Escorts! Well, you do fuck Escorts, but really we're all just glorified whores, strippers and prostitutes for the enjoyment of Royals-"

The prince cuts her off by wrapping the robe back around her and sweeping her up into his arms. "I think it's bedtime for you," he says and some part of her expects him to be angry but she just finds a small smile on his lips.

She pouts as he carries her back inside and closes the door to the balcony with her foot. "I'm not twelve Your Highness. I didn't even have a bedtime then. All I got was a bedmate to show me how to screw people, to screw you specifically now that you're my patron, until I passed out from exhaustion. Are you going to show me how to screw people until I pass out? I really don't feel like it. I had a bedmate until I was sixteen. Then I finally got to sleep alone until I was sold to you. I even got to sleep in," Clary whispers conspiratorially.

The prince smiles down at her as he walks past the couch to the hallway. "And how late did you get to sleep?"

"6:30 a.m."

He looks shocked.

"It's so nice to sleep in but here, everything is messed up. My body tells me it needs to get up at sunrise but my internal clock 'no, no, you need to sleep in so the prince can have a nice morning screw.'"

The prince actually laughs at that as he pushes open the door to his room and lays her under the covers, stripping her of the robe. He strips his own body down to his boxers and pulls her against him, wrapping a leg around hers.

"Why is it that I've gone to bed naked the past two nights? Is it because men like the feel of a woman's skin pressed up against theirs? Or do you just like making me feel vulnerable?"

He reaches up and gently places his hand against her mouth. "I'm trying to sleep, little one. You're a very chatty drunk but I need to sleep. Stay until I fall asleep but then you can go watch T.V. or watch the stars. The guards already know not to let you out, they're not even allowed to let me out but be quiet about it," he whispers, kissing her shoulder blade.

"But don't you want to wake up wrapped around me?" She asks. "Where are the dogs?" She feels him smile against her back as he buries his face against her but he lifts up his hand to her lips again, she nips his fingertips.

"Yes, I want to be wrapped around you and I want to be inside you but if you can just be quiet until I go to sleep that would be perfect." He kisses her shoulder blade again, kissing up her spine.

Clary settles down against the prince and laces her fingers through the ones close to her mouth. "Fine. Goodnight, my prince."

"Goodnight little one. I'll see you in the morning," he murmurs before she feels him relax against her back. His breathing evens out even as the alcohol continues pumping through her system. Oh Angel, what had she just said?! She just told him about her time in Night's House. She'd vowed never to tell anyone about her horrid time there. At least she didn't tell him about the beatings or Valentine or the disgrace and disgust shown toward her. She'd also undressed on the balcony but hey, she's a whore, who cares who sees her naked? But she'd spilled her guts about her opinion on being a whore. Maybe he thinks nothing of it because she's drunk. All she can do is hope at this point.

Ugly memories rise unbidden at the thought of what she didn't disclose to the prince, all the times in her foster homes, all the abuse she got from being short and different. No one in New York in any of the homes or the people she saw had red hair. So she got teased relentlessly about it. She remembers the crack of a leather belt, the close confines of a time out box where she would be locked for days for disobedience. The days of hunger. The nights of fleeing from trolling gang members who want to have 'fun' with a defenseless little girl.

She shivers in disgust as she realizes the man holding her now is no better than those gang members, he just has the money and power to buy her virginity and the influence to not call it rape. That's what it is though, nonconsensual sex that she's being forced into. It's either the pain of deflowering or the paralyzing pain of her chip or, if she's sent back, Valentine.

Still slightly tipsy, she slowly untangles her legs from the prince's and unlaces her fingers from his hand. She slips from the bed, drawing the covers back over the prince before walking to the closet to pull on one of her dorm shirts and a pair of light sweat pants. She also slips on a bra, just for good measure, finally feeling decent. She walks out to the family room, planning on heading for the balcony but feeling too trapped turns instead to the door. She's stopped as she opens the door by two security guards.

"Sorry, Ms. Clarissa. You're not allowed to leave. The castle is still on lock down for another three hours," one of the men say, blocking her path.

"Oh c'mon," Clary says, batting her eye lashes and letting a slow, seductive smirk grace her lips. "I was just going for a little walk to tire me out." The guard looks doubtful. "It's not like I'm a Royal, I'm not in any danger because I'm not a target. Please?" The guard still doesn't look convinced so she steps up to him, craning her neck and trailing her hand down the front of his suit. "I'm an Escort, not royalty. If something happens to me, the prince can buy another one. What's the harm in letting me out for a walk?" Clary asks innocently.

He immediately melts at her look. That's one thing Clary can be grateful Valentine taught to her, she can use her body and looks to get away with murder.

"Alright, but be back within the hour."

"Yes sir," she says, mocking seriousness and saluting him before smiling and walking away down the corridor and across the bridge. Clary descends in the elevator, not really sure where she's going but planning on just wandering until she can get the memories out of her head. They were painful to experience and she has no lust for reliving them. She can feel her body twinge where her scars used to be before Valentine had the surgery done with every memory, every beating.

If she could only shut it out, all of it, she might be able to live with some sense of peace but knowing the prince is losing his patience even if he has the grace not to show it, she won't last much longer as a virgin. She feels like she's drowning in her own memories and fears, her anger. Her chip sparks a few times as she wanders the grand halls but she doesn't notice as she's lost in thought.

There's nothing left to say now really that will save her from all this. Maybe if her parents had kept her or she'd taken a different turn that day when Valentine's men were after her, maybe she wouldn't be a slave to men. Maybe…


	4. The Mind's War

I have successfully written another chapter that I sincerely hope all of you will enjoy. I might not post for a little while. Just a heads up but I love how so many of you guys leave reviews and comments It means so much to me that all of you continually read my stories and I hope you will continue to do so. I'm working on Jonathan's Angel, my other story which at the moment is at a very high intensity turn point in the story that I have to be very careful at writing out. Anyway enjoy this chapter and keep reviewing.

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Clary found a garden in the central part of the castle. She's not really sure how to get back but doesn't care at the moment as she stares at her reflection in the clear blue liquid. The water silently laps at the small shore of the enclosed garden. It's just like the trench of liquid she saw when she first got here and it's amazing. She has her feet dipped in and it's every bit as amazing as she thought it would be. A glass dome overhead lets in the moonlight that reflects in the pond and makes water dance on the leaves of all the different trees. She didn't know there were so many different kinds. They all look so different, in height and texture and smell. She walked around earlier and ran her hands over the bark, feeling the roughness of some and the smoothness of others. It'd amazed her.

But staring at her reflection, the messy red hair, still managing to look perfect in a 'just rolled out of bed way,' her bright green eyes duller than they used to be as a child, dulled and beaten down by captivity and the confines of her lavish prison, she can see the beauty Valentine always told her about but it seems fake, even without her makeup and primed and primped hair and body. She feels so _fake._ Everything about her is fake. Her expressions, her feelings, her beauty, her happiness, her submission. She doesn't even feel right in her own body, she never has ever since Valentine had her scars removed. Those scars had been a part of her.

Valentine hadn't bothered taking away the one on the back of her neck though, saying that it was hidden by her hairline and she treasures that mark. If she brushes it just right, she can feel the indent and it comforts her, reminds her that she was an actual person once and not just a slave. How a slave could have had something before their imprisonment. She can't help but mourn the days that she was free and regret the day that cast her into hell. She's been stripped bare and Valentine might as well have clamped a dog collar around her neck. She could have become something more. Could have gone to public school and gotten into college with an art scholarship. She could have made a life for herself, she could have been free. But it all comes back to that one all-damning day, when Valentine found her.

It's probably been over an hour and she'll get in trouble if she doesn't get back before the prince wakes up but at the moment she doesn't really want to go back and climb into bed with her jailor. It feels wrong and discomforting to be forced into Stockholm Syndrome. It's sick and vindictive how the Night's House manipulates their Escorts to actually believe their slavery is beneficial to themselves.

She pauses in her thoughts as she hears soft footsteps behind her in the gritty, tan dirt beneath her and she turns, trying not to make any noises as to alert the wanderer to her presence. Her muscles are coiled and ready to spring, an instinct she'd developed on the streets and hasn't lost since but relaxes as she sees the prince's page boy, Simon.

"Simon?" She calls. He stops walking and looks over at her before cocking his head to the side.

"Clary?" She's shocked as she hears her nickname. One that hasn't been used in years because of the formality and refinement of the Night's House. It's sort of a relief to have someone call her that. She smiles at the good feeling it brings.

"What are you doing up so late?" She asks as he comes over to sit beside her.

"I could ask the same of you," he points out. Clary blushes in shame as thoughts and morbid feelings wash through her.

"I couldn't sleep," she murmurs, not entirely a lie.

"I don't usually go to sleep until around one," Simon says as he spreads his long, skinny legs out before him. He really is quite awkward but in that cute geek sort of way. It's quite a novelty to see someone who isn't graceful and completely in control of their own body. Night's House Escorts are perfect in every way about their bodies since that is what they use to please their patrons. It's completely unacceptable to have a clumsy Escort, it's _displeasing_. So says all the previous clients who've had a clumsy Escort.

"Why not?" Clary asks. She doesn't like to sleep usually because it reminds her of all her job entitles. It reminds her that she'll have to share a bed with the prince for the rest of her life. How she'll never have freedom again. It's unsettling for her to share one of the most private places that isn't her body with someone she despises.

"Page duties," Simon says, leaning back on the ground and tucking his arms behind his head. "I have to make sure all the prince's affairs are in order; that he knows about them. I have to tend the horses, the dogs, run around the castle doing general gopher stuff mostly and it doesn't get done until midnight then I use the extra hour to catch up on manga and sci-fi movies."

Clary cocks her head to the side, looking down at the long, scrawny body that is Simon's. "What is 'sci-fi movies and manga'?" She asks, they sound like some odd disease.

Simon looks up at her, his big brown eyes curious and endearing as they regard her. He gives her a confused smile. "What do you mean what are they? Did you live under a rock in New York?"

Clary's breath hitches involuntarily at Simon's innocent question. No, she didn't live under a rock, just in a prison where she was forced to sell her most sacred value against her will. She feels so stupid and ignorant here because instead of being a normal teenager who learns about electronics and goes to school, someone who dates a boy for the first time and experiences that first heartbreak. Being that someone who has a mother and father to go home to and have them hold you while you eat a carton of ice cream. Instead of being someone who gets to choose who they love, who breaks their heart and who they give themselves completely to, she is a sealed and sold, glorified whore with no more rights than a paper weight. It's almost enough to make her burst into tears at the loss of everything she could have had but she refuses to cry. What's the point when there's no hope for a second chance anyway?

"No, I was just a shut in," Clary murmurs, turning back to the reflective water that laps at her ankles.

"Well," Simon continues, oblivious to her inner turmoil that she strives to hide. "They're these things, that, um… like books with pictures… um and aliens… uh. I don't really know how to explain them. I'll have to show you sometime."

Clary smiles at the thought. No one ever bothered with her before, the little redhead who always had her nose in a sketch book or head in the clouds. But to know that this boy is willing to share something he loves with a complete and total stranger, it warms her frozen heart, if only a little.

"I'd like that," she says, remembering all the times when she'd asked to play with the other kids and they'd thrown her away. Rejected her because she was different.

"Clary," Simon asks quietly, his voice taking on a lower, almost timid tone as he sits up and turns to her. Even sitting down he's so much taller than her, not as tall as the prince but almost.

"Hmm?" She hums without turning from the sparkling water's surface.

"If you don't mind my asking, did you happen to know a girl about your age with long black hair and brown eyes so dark they almost looked black? She'd always wear a large ruby pendant too, around her neck. Her name's Isabelle," Simon asks and Clary can hear the raw hurt and anguish in his voice, emotions that have been reflected too many times in her own.

"Yeah, I did. She was my best friend," Clary says tiredly, remembering how Izzy would act like a mother to her even though she was only a year older than her. Izzy would always be there when she was confused or hurt or she just needed someone to talk to about all the stress being pressed upon her. She was heartbroken when the Portuguese prince had bought her, after the same prince's sister had bought Alec. She's never felt as lonely as she did the month she was without those two. They'd been closer to her than her own soul.

"Really?" Simon asks, sitting straight up. She can see the hopefulness on his face and it breaks her heart to know that Izzy is now unreachable to both of them. "How- How was she? Did she miss me? Is she okay? Was she," he gulps and drops his eyes to the ground. "Was she sold?"

Clary pauses, deliberating if she should tell him the truth, by which his reaction she knows would break his heart. She doesn't want to tell him how they had to beat Izzy at least once a day for the first year Clary was there because she wouldn't conform then at the auction. Before that, before Clary was taken, Izzy had been there years before with her brother and still neither of them had given in. It was only when Clary arrived she convinced them to stop because she hated seeing them hurt on a daily basis even though Clary was ever the hypocrite. _Do as I say not as I do._ Clary had gotten many a beating to last her a life time at Night's House but she hated coming into her friends' rooms and finding them black and blue.

She still feels guilty because she is who essentially got them sold off to Portugal. She convinced them to behave to the degree where they wouldn't be hurt anymore and that made them selling material. Especially with how stunning the two siblings looked. No one could resist Alec's eyes, not even her. And Izzy was just naturally, majestically beautiful. Clary knows that she is the one who sealed her friends' fates.

"What does she mean to you?" Clary asks sheepishly. The guilt rises up and wraps steel bands around her heart, sending cold chills through her blood.

Simon's head is bowed, his knees pulled up to his chest and arms draped over his knees in a look of utter defeat and torment. One she's all too familiar with. "She means everything to me," he whispers in a wretched voice, his head hung low and breathing shallow.

Clary inhales deeply, bracing herself for the ugly truth she's going to tell her possible friend. She hates hurting people, even if it's the people who buy and sell and use her. She's been hurt so many times that she would never wish it on anyone else.

"Yes, she's been sold," Clary murmurs quietly. "She was… fine at least when I last saw her."

"Do you know who she was sold to?" Simon asks, straightening up instantly, desperation dripping from his voice. She knows why. If you know the Escort and you want them back, there's only one way to release them from their captivity.

Once a child is taken into Night's House custody, they're moved to a separate base location, far away from their country of origin. Night's House makes sure to keep their identity concealed by using injections of memory serum to erase their previous life, at least names, places pictures, not habits or mannerisms, which help in preparing them for royalty, from the Escorts mind. The only thing they tell the Escorts are their first names.

None of this was done to her because she's an orphan who no one cares about enough to search for her. She only knows about this because she's seen so many different Escorts come in over the years not remembering who they are and thinking themselves born into the business. Only the really mentally resilient remember something and then only that they weren't born to slavery. Izzy and Alec were two of those.

Night's House keeps all the blood work, heritage and Royalty records locked up so no one can access them. For if the previous family of an Escort is searching for them and has found the base House, they can go to them and reclaim the Escort if they can prove they're blood relatives. If the Escort has already been sold, it's even more difficult.

Night's House doesn't disclose the information about who they sold the Escort to under confidentiality clauses so the family has to find who ever bought the Escort through the Royal system and even then it's hard. No one usually documents the existence of the Escorts in courts so they have to go through the black market systems and spies to find out where they are. Once they find them, they have to negotiate with the Royal family who bought the Escort, then the patron has to go through the trouble of filing for a replacement.

Once the searching Royal family finds the Escort they have to prove the blood relation through papers. Then the Escort has to have their memories replenished from the serum. Depending on their former lives and how well the patron has treated the Escort, the Escort makes the decision to stay or go back with their family. But if the patron has married the Escort, the countries have to work out treaties and alliances based on the marriage, if the Escort wants to continue the marriage and if the country of the Escort's family wants an alliance with the country of the patron the Escort previously belonged to. If not, they file for divorce, political tensions, blah, blah, blah.

It turns out to be a really big mess for both countries. That's why most families who lose their children don't bother searching for their children after they turn eighteen, when they're sold off. It's much easier to give up the search after eighteen for political differences. Clary's always found it sad.

"The Portuguese prince and Alec to the Portuguese princess," Clary says weakly.

Simon's eyes widen and a grin breaks across his face. He jumps up and tackles Clary into a hug. "Clary you have no idea how much that means to me. Thank you, thank you, thank you." He pulls back and gives her a big kiss on her cheek. "I love you so much for this," he says before bolting away from her, back through the entrance to the garden.

Clary sits stunned on the ground, staring after Simon. What does he mean? He's not royalty, he can't have any claim over getting Izzy back. Or Alec. He's a page boy, he can't even come close to having any claim or right to take back those two Escorts, especially with their value and reputation. Turning back to the water she stares at her reflection.

Images flash in her mind, causing a splitting headache to rage up in the back of her head. The alcohol has died down, letting her regain most of her rational thought but that doesn't make what she did any less painful. Izzy and Alec knew that it was her who caused them to be sold but they never blamed her, even though she blames herself. That's why she loved them so much, they were her family when everyone else had abandoned her.

Closing her eyes, she shakes her head to banish those dark thoughts to the recesses of her mind. She stands, feeling slightly woozy and completely worthless and tries to find her way back to the prince's suite. She treads lightly through the hallways, her bare feet padding against the seamless cool marble floor. She eventually finds the elevator leading back to the suites. She leans against the mirrors in the elevator as the doors open to the bridge over the throne room.

She can see the gray streams of morning dawn flooding in and embracing the castle infrastructure like an old friend. She slinks back to the suite up the glass staircase, finding the guards gone, she slowly turns the knob of the door but freezes as she feels a cold breath blow down the back of her neck and a sharp prick. Goosebumps rise along her skin as she scratches the back of her neck and spins around, expecting to find someone behind her but she sees nothing but shadows, cast by the morning light coming in from the outer hallway. She turns around, blowing a breath out between her teeth. It's the alcohol.

Letting the door fall open she sees an empty living room, not even the dogs present as she closes the door. How could she let her friends get sold like that? Even if the penalty after sixteen years of insubordination is death. Izzy would have fought till the end, Alec would have but she asked them to stop because she didn't want to see them hurt. And her own selfishness condemned them to a lifetime of servitude.

Her throat starts to close off, like icy hands cutting off her air. Her eyes sting with tears but she refuses to cry, refuses to show weakness when it's no use. She shuffles down to the prince's room about to walk in to go back to sleep but thinks better of it. She doesn't want to touch her patron when she doesn't have to. It feels sick, makes her sick when she has to cuddle up and play lapdog when what she wants to do is turn around and bite the hand that's playing with her.

She turns and walks to the opposite door, into her own bedroom. The sheets are turned down, baring lush, deep purple satin covers. There's a set of large, grey cotton pajama bottoms and tank top. She doesn't bother changing as she slides into bed, pulling the covers over her head and falling into sleep.

Jonathan rolls over in bed, feeling around for his Clary but the cold spot on the bed where her warm body was when he fell asleep tells him that she's already gone. He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face before opening his eyes. Looking over at his alarm clock he sees it's a little after nine, two and a half hours after what his little redhead told him she was allowed to sleep in to. He feels a twinge in his chest at her careless words last night.

_But when I'm sober I can't do this._ She'd lied to him but he can't figure out about what. He should get her drunk again, he means really drunk, because she held up pretty well under the one glass, to find out what she was lying to him about. He could always use the chip in her wrist…

No, he's not that cruel. He saw the pain on her face yesterday after she'd gotten out of the shower. The fear in her stance as she'd sunken to the floor, it was almost enough to block out the raging hard on he'd developed at seeing her kneeling, naked and vulnerable at his feet. He'd still felt it like fire as he'd reached down to draw her up. He knows she didn't slip in the shower, that's not what caused those wounds. She'd been gripping her wrist so tightly she cut the skin, the little crescent shapes telling her nails' presence on her skin. What made her do that, Jonathan is still debating.

She's scared of him, he knows this; he saw it as she flinched at his touch. He wants to go find her now and draw her close. He wants to just hold her and reassure her that he'll never hurt her, ever. But it will take more than just words to get her to trust him. He has no clue what Valentine did to her at the Night's House but if it's anything like he's seen, Clary is now scarred for life. And he hates that, hates that he couldn't have gotten to her sooner.

She tries to keep herself in line but he can see how hard it is for her. How hard it is to conform to orders. She's her mother's daughter alright. Just the same spitfire, same spirit and it turns him on like hell.

Rolling out of bed, he pulls on a t-shirt before leaving his room in search of his companion. Walking into the kitchen, he sees the message board on the fridge is blinking red. Pressing the screen, a recording of the queen pops up, saying that everyone needs to be ready by noon because the equestrian tournament was back on. Flicking the recording to the side he goes into options and turns on the coffee maker with the touch of a button. Two straight black coffees. Leaning against the counter as the coffee brews, he looks around his apartment.

There's no sign of Clary. Frowning, he walks over to the balcony and opens the doors. When all he finds is the morning sun shining in through his windows over the peaks of the mountains he turns back and closes the doors. He walks over to the side table by his couch and picks up his glass tablet, much like the one he received for Clary, to control the chip, not that he'll ever use it for anything other than monitoring her health and tracking her, and flips to the security icon. Paging the head of security through a video conference, the man picks up.

"Good morning Your Highness," he says in a low gruff voice.

"Morning," Jonathan replies. "Who was posted at my door last night?"

The man turns away for a moment, probably to search through his digital records then turns back to him. "Pangborn and Blackwell, Your Highness."

"Page them for me," Jonathan says, minimizing the screen with the head of security as two sound waves that represent the guards' voices through their ear pieces, appear on screen.

"Your Highness," they both say in unison, the sound waves moving sporadically with the different tones of their voices. That's really getting on his nerves. 'Your Highness.' He much rather prefers it when Clary calls him 'my prince,' but what he really would like is if she called him by his name. It's going to take more coaxing though. She's not used to calling Royals by their names, it's improper. And really starting to tick him off.

"Where did my Escort go last night?"

There's silence from both of them for a long moment before one, Pangborn, replies. "She said she wanted to go for a walk around the castle to tire herself out Highness. I told her to be back within the hour but she didn't come back before we were relieved of position three hours later."

A twinge of anger shoots through his blood at the news. "Isn't this castle on lockdown?" Jonathan asks irately.

"Yes, Your Highness."

"And were you or were you not supposed to let anyone, and that means _anyone,_ out of their rooms after nine for the final safety lockdown?" Jonathan's voice has become edged like the side of a razor blade, capable of slitting a man's throat. If Clary is still wandering the castle unprotected after she was shot he's going to skin the guards and hang them out for the birds. Well, he's going to do that anyway for letting her out in the first place.

"We were not, Highness," both guards say.

"And what did you do?" Jonathan asks, feeling like a kindergarten teacher scolding students for putting crayons up their noses.

"We let her out."

"That's right," Jonathan says with mock enthusiasm before flicking both sound waves off screen, ending the calls and re-enlarging the captain's, head of security, picture. "Bring up the security footage from my apartment around midnight," he orders and a video feed of his front door to the apartment pops up in full color. The feed runs through about two minutes of blank feed then he plays it normal speed as he sees Clary come out to the living room in a baggy shirt and sweat pants.

The guard stops her at the door and there being no audio on the feed he can't hear what she's saying but the guard eventually lets her out. The door closes on her perfect ass and he fast forwards through about six hours of nothing. The dawn light shows in the feed as Clary opens the door again. He plays it normal speed and watches as she walks in, looking shaken. He can see dark circles under her eyes and a haunted look on her face. Her shoulders are slumped as she closes the door behind her, pauses to look around and heads down the hall to where his bedroom is.

She pauses at the door, hand on the knob for a moment before she seems to think better of it and turns to the bedroom he had set up for her for just this purpose, whether she didn't want to wake him or she didn't want to sleep with him. He doesn't care, that's why he had the room set up. He thanks the captain before ending the call and setting the tablet back on the table.

He looks over at the coffee maker to see it deposit one cup on the counter and draw another up from beneath to start a new cup. He turns and walks toward Clary's bedroom, meaning to just glance inside to make sure she's there but stops as he sees the messy sheets and the sprawled, unconscious girl atop them, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, the morning sunlight casting shadows across her from the window. He frowns and walks over to the bed where the small woman is lying.

Her leg is thrown over top the deep purple comforter with her red hair fanned out around her face, which is paler than usual. There's a sheen of sweat covering her body and the sweat pants he saw from the security footage have been kicked down to her ankles revealing her bare naked butt and triangle of dark red curls between her thighs. On her side she has one arm stretched out in front of her while the other is bent under the side of her head. He can see her bra flung onto the pillow beside her face and half the comforter hangs off the bed while the other half is curved up her body and resting on her torso. Her face is scrunched up as if in pain.

Before it can become a real distraction, he pulls her sweat pants back up her legs to cover the dark red curls, which immediately causes Clary to stir. She starts shifting uneasily on the bed, making whimpering sounds of discomfort so he strips the pants completely from her and avoids looking down to where he wants to bury himself to the hilt in her warm, tight body. She settles back down as the pants leave her and Jonathan leans over her to press a wrist to her forehead.

She makes a soft sound of protest, followed by heavy breathing as her forehead boils under his wrist. He reaches over to the bedside table where an identical glass tablet to the one in the living room except this on is embedded in the wall, as is the one in his room, and presses the call button for Will, his uncle twice removed or something to that affect. He still doesn't know why Will would prefer to be a doctor, helping other people, when he could be waited on hand and foot as the Duke. Of course he still retains his title and lands but he is much more modest about his standings.

Based on the security footage, Clary's only gotten three hours of sleep, which he hates to disturb but he kneels on the bed and brushes Clary's cheek with his knuckles. Her slightly parted lips are begging for another kiss that he would happily bestow if he knew what she has isn't contagious but for now he contents himself with kissing her cheek to wake her up. She'll probably have a hangover and a nasty one based on last night's strip tease. That had set him so on edge it'd made him stiffer than a wooden plank and had shot his desire so far through the roof, the stars Clary had wanted to talk to would have felt it.

He wants so badly to bury himself so deep inside her that she'll be blind from it but he knows her adversity to giving herself over to him is strong. And he doesn't want to force it on her, especially given who she is. He wants to ease the idea of it onto her then tease her so much that she'll be the one begging for him. Just the way he likes it.

He kisses her other cheek, murmuring good mornings in her ear before she finally peels her eyes open to small slits. Looking at the green that flares within her irises, they're blazing, bright and vibrant, with an unhealthy glow to them no matter how beautiful they are. She reaches her hand up and runs it down his chest, picking at his hem like he's not the one in the shirt. Her bottom lip is stuck out and he wants to lean down and suck on it but holds himself back.

"How are you feeling this morning?" He asks and Clary gives him an absolutely stunned look, like no one's ever asked her about her wellbeing.

"I-I feel fine," she stutters, her voice raw and scratchy but still completely attractive to him. He really needs to teach her to stop lying to him, it's unbecoming.

"Don't lie to me. I don't care what the Night's House rules are. You're mine now so my rules are to be abided by." He knows she's only lying because Escorts aren't supposed to draw attention to themselves or their needs. Their only purpose is to serve others. But he won't have that here, if Clary's sick and needs to be taken care of, he'll take care of her. No ifs, ands or buts about it.

Clary pouts, making Jonathan lean down unconsciously with how much he wants to claim her lips and taste her. He can see the indecision on her face as she fights against the training ingrained into her mind. What he's asking goes against the strict set of rules she's lived under for the past six years.

"Nothing's going to happen if you don't feel well," Jonathan soothes, smoothing her hair back from her eyes, squinted as they are at the moment. "We'll just bring in the medic and make you feel better."

That statement seems to set off fear in her, the reason he has no clue, but her eyes fly open, turning wide before she sinks back on the bed away from him. He frowns at her reaction. What did Valentine do to her? He told Jonathan Clary would be looked after, had been looked after but from what he's seen, Valentine's inflicted more scars on her than he's wanted for her.

She's trying to edge back against the headboard but Jonathan swings his leg over her febrile body and pins her wrists beside her head to get her to stop thrashing. Kneeling over her like this, with her bottom half bare to him, makes fire rush up his body, setting his body ablaze. He can feel himself getting harder under his boxers. Practically salivating over the prospect of taking his virgin for himself, he lets his eyes flick down to the triangle of moist curls. He can practically feel himself slide into her with slow, meticulous movements to rack up as much pleasure from the both of them as possible.

Shaking his head and tearing his gaze away from that part of her body, he looks back up at her terrified face. She's stopped thrashing and seems to be waiting in anticipation for him to strike. Instead he leans down and grazes his nose up the side of her neck which seems to finitely calm her. Placing a kiss beneath her earlobe and making her shudder, he leans back on his knees, her wrists still pinned beside her head.

"Tell me what's wrong. Nothing's going to happen to you, I promise," he says softly, slowly removing his grip from her wrists. She leaves them where he put them.

She still looks resistant to answer but after a moment of staring up at him she sighs raggedly, like she's on the edge of a cough. "My stomach feels like it's being ripped out," she says quietly. "My throat hurts, I'm really hot." _Oh yes, you are. _An image, a memory really, of her writhing in pleasure beneath him flashes across his mind._ "_And my body aches." He can make her body ache in more ways than one. Just the way his groin is aching for a taste of her now.

Clearing his head of those thoughts, he leans down and brushes his lips over her forehead which is broiling. "I'll make sure you're healthy in no time. Okay?" He whispers quietly, avoiding the phrase 'make you better' and feeling as though he's treading on thin ice so not to scare the beautiful cornered animal he has pinned to a bed and _vulnerable._ The mere thought of what he could do to her right now pours molten lava through his veins.

Clary nods timidly before turning her head to the side and practically passing out again. Well, that's not what he wanted her to do, or needed but he can't grudge her sleep when she's sick. He rolls to the side, splaying out on the bed beside her and feeling her unnatural body heat. This is where he's wanted to be for forever. In the bed of a beautiful woman who he can care for and have for the rest of his life. He closes his eyes, savoring the feel of a woman like Clary lying beside him.

A woman that can become unpredictable and be so spastic that it makes his head spin. One whose caresses are gentle and meaningful even though he knows how much it pains her to do so. A woman whose mere touch can light up every hormone he possesses. A woman whose gentleness and ingenuity can warm his heart to the point of heat flooding his veins after so many years of loneliness and politics.

He rolls on his side, waiting for Will to come tend Clary, and takes a lock of her red hair, twisting it between his fingers. Clary rolls over as he plays with her hair and her nose brushes his chin. "Mm, what are you doing?" Clary whispers to him in the sweetest, softest voice he's heard from her yet, one that he intends to hear when he's buried deep inside her. He draws her up against him, pressing her lower heat against his.

"Just admiring my red beauty," he says quietly before she nods sleepily and drapes a leg around his. She drifts back to sleep just as his groin starts to burn painfully. He can feel her core pressed tight against him and though it pains him to do so, he slowly places Clary's leg back on the bed and covers her bottom half with a satin bed sheet before walking out to the living room to answer his door, where he heard a knock a moment ago.

Answering it he sees his uncle, Will, standing in a rumpled button up shirt and wrinkled slacks with his messy midnight hair and stunning blue eyes. He looks like he's been up all night. He eyes his uncle suspiciously.

"Are you alright, Your Grace?" Jonathan asks as he steps aside to let him in. He doesn't want a doctor who is addled in any way tending his most prized woman.

"Fine," he says. "I just found out a bit of news that I've been waiting for a long time," the Duke says with a small, relieved smile on his face. He holds his medical bag, a sleek black messenger equipped with high tech electronic readers and remedies for just about everything, in his right hand and closes the door with his left. "Now what can I do for you Your Highness?"

Jonathan turns and gestures for his uncle to follow. "Clarissa drank some wine last night and I can't decide if she has a hangover or something else. If it were a hangover, it's pretty severe and some of her symptoms are out of the ordinary. She has a raging fever and has pretty much soaked her bed sheets. She says her stomach feels like it's being ripped out, her throat hurts and her entire body is sore in general. She was wandering around the castle last night." The Duke's look is one of absolutely shock. No one was supposed to be wandering the castle. "_Against _my orders, and didn't come back until around six. So I don't know if it could be sleep deprivation or just a hangover but I'm not the medical expert," Jonathan says, stopping in front of Clary's closed door. "That would be why I called you, dear uncle."

"Well, it sounds like she might have salmonella poisoning or the stomach flu but the high fever… I'd have to get a closer look," Will says, pushing open the door.

Jonathan steps around him to find an empty bed, the deep purple sheets tossed away from the bed. He scans the room but sees no trace of her.

"Looks like Clarissa's evaporated," Will says quietly before they hear a cough from down the hall. Jonathan turns and takes off down the hall toward the bathroom. He hears quiet coughs from the other side of the door. He knocks on the door and the coughs immediately stop.

"Open the door, little one," Jonathan says, knowing how hard it is for her to admit something is wrong with her, see the fear and pain on her face. He thinks Valentine beat her from admitting something was wrong. He has to tread ice so he uses calm gentle words to let her know she won't be hurt to admit she needs help. He grabs the knob and tries to turn it. He finds it locked and he leans his shoulder against the door.

"Open the door," he says again, keeping his voice even. He rattles the door knob again but it still doesn't budge. He knocks again and he hears some soft scuffling inside, the toilet flush, something hitting the wall. He nearly knocks down the door as he hears that but the lock clicks and opens to display a trembling, pale, redheaded girl. Sweat still beads her skin and her pants are still gone.

She looks up at him with big doe eyes. He reaches out to help her stand but she steps back and places a hand to her mouth. She coughs and her eyes watch her hand for a moment as she drops it. She's still shaking and her breathing is heavy, skin pale. He steps forward just as her eyes roll back into her head and he reaches out to catch her. He gathers her against him and turns to Will who stands with a calculating glance at the girl in his arms.

"See?" Jonathan says, nodding down at the unconscious girl in his arms.

Will nods. "Take her to bed and I'll do a physical. I also need her vitals tablet that goes to her chip."

Jonathan carries her down the hall to his own bedroom, pushing open the door and setting her down on top of his bed. He pulls a blanket over her lower half and what stops him is the sight of her palm, covered in dots of red. He grabs her wrist as Will turns the light on. He sees the blood covering her hand, the hand she coughed into.

"Will, she coughed up blood. I don't think it's a hangover," Jonathan says, wiping away the wet dribble of blood on her palm. His uncle rushes over and takes Clary's palm from his hand and examines it. Without looking up he snaps at Jonathan.

"Get her tablet."

Jonathan reaches over to his nightstand and grabs the small glass tablet. Flipping it on, he sees high numbers and flashing colors, indicating that something is completely wrong with his redhead. Will takes the tablet and taps several different things. He digs in his bag and pulls out a needle. Shaking a bottle of thick orange liquid he recognizes as sealant. He was injected with it when he'd fallen off a horse and broken his rib. The rib had punctured his lung and he'd had that injected into his blood stream to seal his lung and secure his rib back into place.

Knowing that Clary has internal bleeding, the sealant should close up any internal wounds. Will sticks the needle into the crook of Clary's elbow. When all Clary does is cough blood again, Will pulls out the Clary's tablet and an x-ray tablet. He holds it over her stomach, then her chest, the images flickering on the screen and flashing red in areas of her anatomy. Will stows it back in his bag and turns to the tablet that controls Clary's chip. He drags his forefinger across the screen, lowering the electrical pulse of Clary's chip. Before Will can administer the shock, Jonathan grabs his wrist.

"What are you doing?" He asks. Jonathan promised himself never to use the chip on Clary. It's cruel enough to have a monitoring system forcibly injected into your body but to have it be a punishment as well, he refuses to use it. Especially after what he saw on her wrist, which is still bandaged.

"There's something that seems to be a parasite stuck onto her spine at the base of her neck. _Inside _her body. I'm administering a shock to kill the parasite and flush it out of her system. It's what's inciting the fever, sweating, weakness and internal bleeding. It's not going to hurt her Jon," Will says, softening his voice. Despite being uncle twice removed, Will is only a few years older than him, around twenty-six or twenty-seven. Yet his uncle can have years of wisdom that Jonathan doesn't. And sometimes it's the other way around. The two have always been good friends.

Jonathan purses his lips. "Be sure that it doesn't. She's already got enough problems with it."

Will nods and turns back to the blinking, colorful screen. He adds two notches to the electrical shock before he presses the engage and Clary's eyes fly open as she gasps, her body arching off the bed.

"Get me a trash bin," Will says suddenly and looks at him with a look of panic. "If you value your silk sheets get me a trash bin!"

Clary starts coughing violently, holding a hand to her mouth. Jonathan rushes to his bathroom and grabs his small, chrome trash bin. He rushes back out and crawls on the behind Clary as she leans to the side. Curving his arm with the trash bin around her to catch anything, he pulls her hair back away from her face as she coughs up blood into the bin. He wraps an arm around her waist from behind to hold her steady and hold her hair back as she finishes coughing and collapses against him in sheer exhaustion. Her eyes roll back in her head as her body drops against his. He adjusts to her weight against his chest and looks up to Will who's standing by the bed.

"She's fine now. The contaminant has been flushed from her body; that was the blood in the bin, which I need to process. The parasite incited a fever, which isn't contagious, and should last for a few hours before dissipating. Doctor's prescription: rest, lots of water and I'll send up some meds for her. The sealant's already taken affect now the parasite is removed. Don't move her too much and I would advise not going to the equestrian tournament today. I can tell Her Majesty if you, yourself aren't coming but if you are, I wouldn't advise leaving Clarissa alone. I might be wrong, but the parasite isn't native to Idris," Will says before taking the can from Jonathan.

"I'll call you later when I get results back on the parasite. In the meantime, I'd double the guard and stay with her," Will says before leaving his room with a soft click of the door in the living room.

"By the Angel," Jonathan murmurs, readjusting Clary under the covers so she rests on the pillows. First the shooting, now the parasite… He's knows who she is but he hadn't known that this many people were after her. He's going to have to basically keep her locked up, guards on her at all times and he sure as hell isn't going to leave her side now. It might be difficult, the queen will probably want to eventually drag him off to some political meeting or gala. The queen definitely won't let him miss her gala for the U.N. All Heirs from all the countries have to be present along with the ruling monarch or monarchs.

Clary should be walking by Saturday, which is in three days but he's not going to leave her side. He'll have to check with security and make sure the guards understand she is not allowed to go anywhere unaccompanied ever again, which is only when he's asleep and she decides to sneak off and take another midnight stroll through the castle.

Clary moans and rolls on her side, facing Jonathan who sits on the bed beside her. He looks down just as Clary slits her eyelids to look up at him. "What happened?" She says in a big rush of air. Her mouth and lips are still bloody, which doesn't matter to Jonathan, given she could have just died. Jonathan smiles warmly down at her.

"You're fine now. Let me go get a glass of water for you," he says, leaning down to kiss her nose, where he finds her skin still feverish and clammy. He retrieves a glass of water and a washcloth before returning to the bedroom where Clary is staring up at the ceiling, looking like she's concentrating extremely hard.

He walks to the side of the bed and sets the glass of water down before moving to wipe away the blood. She immediately recoils against the headboard.

"What are you doing?" She asks, her voice strung as taut as a tight rope.

"Washing away the blood, little one," he says, letting his voice slip into that silky quality he uses with his younger cousins when they're scared.

"What blood?" Clary asks, clearly frustrated, like she can't remembering anything. The dark circles under her eyes are pronounced and her face is ghastly pale. He can tell she's struggling to stay awake even as they speak.

Jonathan wipes his thumb at the corner of his own lip in a motion to show her where the blood on her own body is. Clary raises a hand to her lips and finds it comes away bloody. Fear and panic engulf her green eyes. This must be absolutely decimating for her. The training ingrained in her will crush her conscious knowing she's now gotten shot and sick within ten days of being bought and within those ten days, has still not allowed her patron, that would be him, to take what he bought. She's probably scared stiff of what will happen to her.

But Jonathan crawls onto the bed, stroking his hands down her upper arms to calm her. Her frightened eyes flick up to him and spin at a million miles a minute with all the ideas and fears running through her head.

"You're okay. You're allowed to get sick and take recovery time. Do you understand? You're wellbeing comes above my needs. I'm not going to punish you for being sick," Jonathan soothes and Clary only looks half convinced, not even that, as she allows him to use the washcloth and wipe away the blood from her mouth and lips as well as the dribbles down her chest and on her palm.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm sorry. This wasn't supposed to happen." She's shaking her head, clearly scared for her life and anger washes over him. He should kill Valentine for doing this to her.

He cups the sides of her face, stroking his thumbs over her cheekbones. He's glad to feel her melt slightly under his touch. She looks up at him and he presses his lips to hers, which have cooled considerably, in a gentle kiss meant to comfort. She fists her hands in the bed sheets before he lets go.

"Don't apologize for something you have no control over," he says tenderly, pulling the covers up around her and dragging pillows over to her while he makes her lay back. He hovers over her, his body braced on his hands and knees as she looks up at him with regretful, fearful eyes that he so much wishes to comfort but she needs to rest.

"It's against the rules though. I-I have to…"

He holds a finger to her lips to silence her before stress rises. "You don't have to do anything except please me," he says and takes his finger away to brush his hand through her thick, crimson curls. "And right now what would please me is for you to relax and get better. Alright?"

Clary nods silently, still looking up at him with some fear dancing in the deeper green flecks of her eyes. He leans down again and claims her lips in a fiery kiss to crush the fear, wanting her to feel safe in her little haven he'll make for her in his suite. She immediately responds by wrapping her arms around the back of his neck and drawing him down towards her, giving him the opportunity to deepen the kiss. Their tongues play an intricate dance of passion as he soothes away the rigidness in his little redhead's body so she can relax and go back to sleep.

Jonathan pulls away, kissing the tip of her nose and burying his lips against her neck. He laves her skin with his tongue to the point where she lets out a satisfied sound of pleasure. Her hands are fisted in the back of his shirt but he slowly untangles her arms from him before leaning up again. Clary's panting and her eyes are filled with need… and disdain. He understands.

Leaning down to brush his lips over her ear, he whispers in his lilting Idrian accent, "Now go to sleep, little angel, and dream of something pleasurable for me." She shudders at his words and arches up as though his mere words pushed her into climax but he slides off her body, not having realized he's pinned her down with his erection pressed between her legs.

Clary's head turns to watch him go after he draws the blankets up over her still slightly feverish body and gives her one last chaste kiss. He turns out the lights and closes the door with a soft click behind him before walking out into his living to deal with the queen and the matter of extra security for his soon to be wife.


	5. Conceding Love

_Hopefully everyone's seen my AU note in the previous chapter. Sorry for that. But I'll be slowing down, taking over another story to co write with a friend blah blah blah. I'd also like to thank one of my readers. Hannah I believe her name was who used very insisting letters (caps lock) demanding that I post the next chapter in the next seven hours starting now. Was what she said. Sorry that I'm a bit late but here it is Hope the rest of you enjoy it. Review, comment, follow continue reading. Mostly continue reading, that's the most important to me. Love you all enjoy (again) I apologize again for taking so long._

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_We'll make you feel better_. It echoes in her head and she screams, bolting upright. She frantically searches the room but it's too dark to tell where she is. How did she get here? What time is it? Where's the prince? Her chest heaves and her body burns with unnatural heat as she notices that her sweatpants are missing. She can't remember anything past falling into the bed across the hall from the prince.

She hears hurried footsteps somewhere and a door is thrown open, the lights flipped on. She recoils from the bright illumination as her eyes adjust from the crushing darkness from a few moments earlier. Her throat feels raw and there's a coppery taste in her mouth. _Blood._

The prince steps up beside the bed, his eyes scanning over her body frantically before looking up at her face. "Are you alright? I heard you scream," he says, sitting on the side of the bed.

Clary runs a hand through her hair, pushing it out of her face. She can still hear her heart pounding in her chest. She nods blindly. "Yes, I'm fine." _No you're not._ The images of large calloused hands holding her down, gripping the back of her neck haunt her. But she's not going to let the prince know that. "Just a nightmare." _More like a memory._

The prince scans her face before finally seeming to accept this. "How are you feeling?" He asks, startling her. The novelty of this question is always shocking to her, only two other people have asked her that and she wouldn't have though the question to come from someone like the prince who only cares about himself. Though she's seriously starting to doubt that. She hates it.

She's always viewed royalty as pompous and self-centered. For this white blond haired prince to come in, buy her virginity then treat her like anything other than a sex toy or property is rattling. She doesn't like that this man is breaking through her opinions and defenses.

"What happened?" she responds, not comfortable with answering the prince's question yet.

The prince appears to be dissatisfied with the question answering his question but doesn't say anything. "We're not quite sure. You had something attached to your spine that Will had to remove. You had a fever, locked yourself in the bathroom and was apparently coughing up blood." He stabs his fingers through his hair nervously, a very un-prince like gesture. "You should be fine now but I want you to go back to sleep at least for another hour. No arguments."

"I'm not tired," Clary says immediately, not wanting to go back to sleep and chance being bombarded by those nightmares again. "What time is it?" She asks, swinging her legs out of bed, her shirt falling just below her hips, exposing her rump and triangle of dark curls.

"Eleven o'clock," he says while a frown crosses his face, standing to take a hold of her waist. She stills, letting herself be drawn back against his body. His large warm hands press against her stomach beneath her shirt. Her gut is sore but his warmth feels good against her skin, seeping into her body to soothe the ache; she can't help but melt back against him, his strength, his warmth, his care. She stops her thoughts at the last one. Does she really believe he cares for her? She stays rigid in his grasp, not moving a muscle as the prince holds her captive. Her body screams for her to twist out of his grasp and lock herself in the bathroom before she has a panic attack. Her nightmare still fresh and bloody in her head.

"But I want you to go back to sleep," he says quietly yet sternly and she can feel the skin on her neck twitch, where her foster father's nails had dug in. She fists her hands in his shirt, tensing at the tone as memories assail her. Her foster father knocking her down, holding her face to the ground by her neck as she struggles to get away. Rough hands tearing off her hand-me-down, thread bare skirt. The screams and shouts of the boy who stumbled upon them before it was too late then the icy, vengeful glare of the man as they dragged him off in electrified cuffs.

"Relax, sweetheart, you're safe here. But I'd like for you to get some more sleep," his voice has turned soft and peaceful. He leans down and presses his mouth to her the skin of her neck, not making a sound as he contents himself with the feel of her skin. She tenses, remembering that she isn't that helpless ten year old anymore but a grown woman, except now, there is no chance of a boy stopping them by calling the police, no one to save her from sacrificing the most intimate and private aspect of herself. Except the prince isn't some perverted, forty year old man supposedly caring for orphaned kids, the prince is a spoiled, pampered bachelor that bought her, body and soul.

He can't really care for her, she's only a six million dollar investment. She can't possibly have someone care for her wellbeing when her entire life has been fend-for-herself or dictated by someone else. She's never had any real choices or a home to go to. Never been able to crawl into bed with someone who will hold her and comfort her. Never had someone to hold her when she's been beaten down. She's a slave; that's what she's been even in her foster homes.

But the way the prince treats her… It's all so conflicting and stressing, pressing on her chest and mind like the anticipation she had that night. She didn't know when the pain would come, her face pressed into the splintering wood floor, small, weak and defenseless against a much stronger, much older, much _scarier _man. Now, even though she has no choice, she has the ability to say when her virginity is taken from her, at least she can control that part of her punishment. To know when to expect the pain instead of waiting for it like a bullet in the dark. She wants to be able to have at least that sliver of control and her fear piling atop her anxiety with every day hour with the prince is nearly killing her, making her relive the nightmare that was her childhood, is almost enough to make her burst into tears. Something she hasn't done since that day at the foster house.

She pulls away from the prince's arms, tugging off her shirt and falling to the floor on her knees, spreading her legs wide, bracing her hands on her thighs and bowing her head. "You've waited long enough, prince," she says shortly, if not a little bitterly. She nearly chokes as she forces her next words out, disgusted by the slavery she's been reduced to. "I cannot express how ashamed I am for the delay or the lack of my health. You may take me now and I won't resist. My job is to please you," she says quietly. She wants this over with so she can stop feeling so conflicted and so in pain, so fearful. At least she knows that she's a slave to him instead of having your freedom pinned to the floor like a butterfly in a display case, exposed and vulnerable. As long as she knows her place, she'll live with whatever comes with it.

The prince says nothing, stepping up to her so she can see his perfect, bare feet. He holds a hand out to her and she obediently takes it, letting him pull her to her feet but keeping her head bowed. He runs a hand over her bare hip. "As much as I would love to take you up on that offer," she tenses at his words, which he immediately attempts to soothe with a caress over her hip. "I need to go tell the queen we won't be attending today's events. Perhaps after I return we could do something to _your _liking, little one."

There it is again. He wants to do things her way, like he cares about what happens to her. She clenches her fists lightly by her sides. "Why aren't we going to today's events?" She asks, her eyes still trained on the ground.

"Because you were sick," he says, tracing a finger over her neck.

"But I feel fine now. Why can't we go?" Clary asks, turning her face into his hand. Her hair falls over her shoulder to cover one of her breasts while he continues stroking her cheek with his thumb.

"You really want to go out to the equestrian tournament after what you've just been through?"

"I don't really remember so yes, I do want to go if it pleases you," she says quietly.

He seems to ponder this for a moment, feeling as though he's having an inner debate over her before he crooks a finger under her chin and tilts her face up to look at him. She looks away but does not remove his fingers from her chin.

"Then I suppose you should go dress. A summer dress perhaps, something light," he says, leaning down to press a chaste but languid kiss on her lips. She keeps her eyes away from his gaze, feeling odd at his reaction to her submission. She's not sure if he's angry or irritated or even pleased but Clary doesn't have the gall to meet his eyes.

"Yes, my prince," she says, frowning to herself before turning away toward the closet, her red hair sweeping around her and falling to the small of her back. She feels it brush against her bare skin softly before she reaches the small section of her clothes and grabs a light peach colored dress and a pair of gilded sandals below it. She clips on her bra and slides into her dress before pulling on the sandals.

She steps out of the closet and goes down to the bathroom to apply a light layer of makeup to compliment her dress. Brushing out her hair she wonders at the possibility that the prince could actually care for her. As more than a sex toy. He mentioned making her his wife but many Escorts become Consorts to royalty. He's taken extra care to make sure she respects herself just as much as him but that could just be his expectations. Her first night though…

He didn't take her because she was scared. He respected her boundaries even though she's supposed to be concealing them from him. In her patron's eyes, they're not supposed to exist. Escorts are supposed to be poster children of perfection. They're not supposed to have problems, they're supposed to be skin deep, shallow Barbie dolls for royalty to play with and discard as they please.

She looks down at her clear polished nails braced on the counter and blows out a breath through her nose. She clears her mind, brushing aside confusing thoughts and just turning it blank. But heat floods her core as strong arms wrap around her waist. She leans back against the prince's solid body and wonders what it would feel like to have him pressed inside her. The thought comes serenely and it seems to relax her, oddly enough as she leans her head back against his shoulder.

"You alright?" He asks in that deep, wonderful voice of his that makes her insides melt.

"I'm fine," she says wistfully, letting herself sink into the thought of being wrapped around him in bed. Of hearing his moans and sounds of pleasure as she manipulates his body. Of him returning that pleasure so her body explodes in orgasm. She smiles as she lets the thought grow without any guilt lacing it.

"Let's go then," he says with a gentle kiss to her neck. She's lost in the fantasies of her own mind, thinking of what it would be like to lie with the prince as they descend the glass staircase to the elevator. She zones out for a moment, her small hand clasped in the prince's large, warm one, before she finally shakes her head.

What is she thinking? The prince only wants her for sex and she should accept that not think of how much he'd love her. Though it's not entirely against the rules to imagine having killer sex with the epitome of that very thing. It's not illegal but it should be appalling to her after she's been trained to use her body in such a way as to please others and not herself.

She doesn't really see where they're going as her mind battles against itself and tries to sort out her feelings and before she knows it they're in a pavilion outside in a garden. A dirt track has been set up with lots of obstacles and stands surrounding the track where the gathering nobility are taking their seats. There's a larger dais with three thrones and an elaborate chair set up in the center of the stands, a lush green canopy shading the seats from the afternoon sun.

Trumpets blare as the prince steps out onto the dais and has her sit in the elaborately decorated chair beside the throne to the left of the largest one. The nobility sitting in the stands look over at her and the prince even as animals, horses, come prancing out onto the dirt track and start circling. Off somewhere, Clary can hear a chamberlain announcing the prince and herself as they take a seat under the shaded canopy. The king and queen's throne to the right remain unoccupied for the time being as the prince leans over to whisper in her ear.

"We can leave anytime you want darling. All you need do is tell me and we'll be gone," he says, his voice like fire creeping over her skin, as though her body is just now realizing it can to react to him in such a way. She nods deftly before turning dutifully to kiss him on the cheek and present him with a winning smile.

"Alright, Your Highness," she replies just as the king and queen step out onto the dais, hand in hand and sharing a big smile as they wave to the audience surrounding the prancing horses. As the king sits in the largest throne to the right of the prince, the queen casts Clary a look that she can't tell is feral or concerned. Either way it makes Clary blush in shame and turn away, glancing at the horses with riders being paraded around and announced before lowering her gaze to her lap.

The prince slides his hand into hers and laces his fingers in between her own, bringing their joined hands to rest on the armrest of the prince's throne, displaying her connection to him publicly, and by the looks of it, quite happily. A horn sounds and the horses clear the track all except for one then a second horn blows as a holographic scoreboard and timer appear overhead as the horse bolts around the track and over obstacles at the rider's urge.

A strange twinge fills her stomach as she thinks of how she's been ridden her entire life to conform perfectly to the whims of others but drops the thought as affection swims through her at the prince's warm squeeze of her hand. She entertains the thought that he genuinely enjoys her company for the next seven riders as they prance and jump and neigh. She doesn't dare look over at the queen or king but she can feel the queen's penetrating gaze on her from time to time like a hot brand against her cheek.

Oddly enough though, the prince distracts her from it as he continually leans over to whisper things in her ear that make her smile. He presses a few kisses to her cheek when he leans over, never releasing her hand and eventually they pick up a conversation about how she's never seen a horse before then that leads into a conversation about going out into the city later today to make do on the promise he made to get her more clothes.

As the tournament comes to an end, the king stands to announce a winner and presents the prize purse. The prince on the other hand has leaned close to her ear and under the guise of whispering something to her, has started suckling the spot just under her ear, making her stiffen in surprise for a moment before turning her face, his lips brushing over hers before whispering in his ear.

"Not yet," she says conspiratorially, a sudden burst of hormones making her want to drag the prince back to the apartment and let him have her for the entire day with the door bolted.

The prince raises an eyebrow at her before kissing her lips softly. "I intend to follow through with that promise," he replies. The winner of the tournament, some foreign noble, circles the track in victory once before exiting. The rest of the nobility watching from the stands begin leaving as the prince stands, pulling her up with him.

He never lets her hand go as they bow to the king and queen respectfully before descending the dais and guards in immaculate black suits fall into step behind them. The prince takes them onto a dirt path through a lush garden on the way back to the castle, not saying a word as he lets Clary take in all the beautiful flora and fauna. Clary lets a smile cross her face and the prince eventually slips an arm around her waist as they walk back to the castle, occasionally passing a few other strolling nobles or pages as they go. Her body seems to mold to the prince's side, becoming more and more allured to the feel of it. She leans her head on his shoulder as they enter the castle through large glass double doors.

"So when are we going shopping?" Clary muses as they make it to the mirrored elevator. She can feel a buzz build behind her naval as the doors close and shut her in close confines with sex on a stick.

The prince's fingers tighten on her waist, making the buzz climb to a low sizzle. "Let's get back to the room and see where it goes from there," he says quietly, sounding slightly tired but his voice takes on a deep, dark quality. She shivers and tucks a hand into the back pocket of his slacks, making him tense and draw her closer. Usually she would be mentally complaining that his hands on her are just a show of possession but it seems natural.

She tries not to frown at herself in the mirror. Since when did she have a change of heart toward her prince? She can't imagine why she would want someone so hot headed to penetrate her most secret temple. He can't possibly have care for something as delicate as taking her virginity, can he? He's a man, all men are rough and brutal. Especially one brought up to rule a country through conniving politics and manipulation. One who's used to getting that which he wants and with her it will be no different. It's her obligation to give in, no matter her opinion.

The elevator doors open and the prince guides her along the bridge, meandering really, not a care in the world as they mount the spiral staircase. The hallway is eerily empty as they reach the prince's chambers and there's a hollow feeling in her stomach as the prince turns to her. He smiles warmly down at her as they stop in front of his door. The hollow feeling in her stomach is now filled with a raging fire at the look in his eyes and her mind is filled with confusion at this reaction to her prince.

"So how did you like the equestrian tournament?" He coos, leaning down to brush a curl away from her cheek.

She takes a step back, conflicted over her body's physical reaction and her back presses against the cool door. "It was entertaining," she says in a low voice. "I've never seen one before so I can't really voice an opinion that carries any weight, Your Highness."

The prince cocks his head to the side and closes the limited space between the two of them. Pressing his hands against the door, he cages her in. "You're opinion matters to me, sweet one. Why would you think otherwise?" He asks in his sweet, melodious voice that sends a shudder through her chest.

"I'm your bought Escort, my prince. I'm supposed to please you not have opinions," she says, ducking her head to tear her eyes away from the prince's piercing black gaze.

"You're my bought nothing, Clarissa. You're my woman and I'll treat you as such. Your opinions matter to me." He takes a step closer. "Your needs matter to me." His body presses against hers, setting it alight. "Your wellbeing matters to me." His hands close round her hips and his head dips down to look her in the eyes. "_You_ matter to me," he whispers before his lips crash against hers.

She gasps at the force of his passion, arching her back against him as she laces her fingers in his ivory hair. He licks her lips gently, belying his forceful kiss and fiery desire, pleading for entrance as his hands squeeze harshly at her hips. She moans and parts her lips for her prince, letting him lick into her mouth. He presses her body back against the door violently, holding her there even as she writhes against him in pleasure as heat floods her veins.

His hands slide down from her hips to her round buttocks, gripping her delicate, firm skin in his hard, calloused hands and lifting her from the ground. Lips still locked, she gasps into the prince's mouth as she's lifted slightly above him and firmly wraps her legs around his waist for support. The prince groans deeply as her legs squeeze his waist and her gentle hands cup his face. He blindly reaches for the door handle behind her and she helps guide his hand down to it. The door falls open, causing her to gasp as the force with which the prince is kissing her swings her back as the door's support leaves.

Her lips momentarily leave his mouth and he kicks the door closed, bolting it tightly before his mouth suckles against the skin of her neck. She throws her head back as her core begins to throb in lusty need. Moaning, Clary is blind to any inhibitions as the prince quickly walks them to his bedroom, kissing and biting the hollow of her throat. He eagerly kicks his door closed, shutting them in darkness.

She gasps as his nose dips into the exposed cleavage and his hot tongue laves up the side of her sensitive breast. She flexes her thighs at the sensation, making the prince groan. He throws her down on the bed, expelling her breath in a gust, and tears off his shirt, tossing it across the room before claiming her lips again. She moans quietly as he goes about licking into her and pressing his swollen groin to where she burns for him.

A shudder of fear runs through her at the prospect of his sex pressed inside her. What will it feel like? It's going to hurt but how much? And for how long? Her fears are obliterated for a moment as the prince deftly tugs the zipper of her dress down the back and his cool fingers trace her spine, arching her up into his hard body. She's left in her sandals, bra and panties as the prince unhooks his belt buckle and pants button and tugs them down, never leaving her lips.

The prince has to pry her arms from around his neck where they've been holding him to her lips, to unhook her bra and gently slide the straps down her arms. She locks her ankles at the small of his back, delaying the inevitable as his hands come up and massage her breasts. She throws her head back in ecstasy as it rips through her body as the prince's experienced hands knead her breasts with fervor. His hands slide away to cup her rear and he moves his mouth down to close around her right nipple.

Her breasts swell and ache as his teeth brush over her sensitive skin. Her hips lift and grind against his swollen groin in an effort to heighten her pleasure. It sores through the roof as the prince pushes back, his boxers brushing her panties. He pulls back from her nipple, blowing a cool breath over the moist skin, causing her to whimper with pleasure. She grabs his chin and pulls him back up for a splintering kiss. He grabs the wrist holding his chin and wrenches it away, pinning it beside her head and thrusting his covered manhood against hers. It sends a spike of fear through her to be pinned down but she calms, reminding herself that this isn't the foster father and she isn't a defenseless ten year-old. Just a helpless eighteen year-old.

"Please," Clary mutters against his hot, swollen lips. She doesn't know what's overtaken her common sense but she uses her free hand to try and wrench down the prince's boxers. He chuckles darkly and peels off the boxers, dropping them beside his ankles. Her hand reaches down with a new hesitancy, never having touched a man before.

The prince uses the hand that isn't pinning hers and takes the hand near his manhood gently. He guides it down and holds her hand over himself, letting her adjust to the new sensation. It feels like hard velvet, luscious and full. He uses her hand to stroke himself and strangely enough, it turns her on even though it shouldn't. Her body being used to please the prince should disgust her but the way he gently holds her hand and uses her fingers to please himself while showing her how to treat a man even though she already knows how. The novelty of touching an actual man is still shocking.

She whines quietly as the prince continues to stroke himself, continues to torture her with pleasure and not satisfy her, one hand pinned beside her head and the other used to satisfy the prince himself but that is his right. He owns her virginity and body, to do with what he pleases though it's torture to her but she must endure it. Squirming slightly beneath his strong, hard body she pulls at his top lip with her teeth, managing to pull a groan from him with the coupled motion of cupping his cock in her hand, gently squeezing him.

He thrusts forward as her hand still cups him, making her stifle a gasp against his mouth. He releases her hand but she continues to stroke him, so much that he groans and has to pull her hand away and pin it with her other wrist in the same hand. She breaks the kiss to whimper and pull at his hand. He leans forward, his mouth just brushing her ear.

"Hush, little one. I want to come with your body wrapped around mine, not just your hand," he whispers and an electric shock travels down her spine with his words. Her chest heaves, pressing her swollen breasts against his chest. This isn't the foster home, she chants to herself. You aren't ten anymore.

He hooks his index and middle finger in the waistband of her panties, slowly inching them down her legs. Before she realizes it, he's slipped her sandals off and her panties have followed, his own boots long gone by the door. She's laying bare beneath the prince, nothing between them but air and it sets her body trembling with both fear and ecstasy. He soothes her by grazing his nose up the side of her neck, blowing a warm breath across her tensed skin.

His hand releases her wrists and both take on a slow, seductive quality as they glide over her body, his calloused finger pads scratching her smooth, freckled skin. He presses down slightly at the pressure points she knows are most erogenous on a woman's body. She languidly arches into him as pleasure floods her senses and she pushes her fingers into his silken ivory curls, letting them caress her fingers as his mouth travels down her body and nips all the spots his rough fingers have caressed and massaged. It sends pleasurable sparks curling up her body as his mouth moves closer and closer to her core.

She bucks her hips upward in anticipation but it seems to drive him off, making him pull back and stop his caressing, to make his hands hold down her hips. She almost cries out at the loss of pleasure and feeling on her heating body. The prince doesn't relent at the withdrawal of pleasure, holding her down but leaning down to brush her ear.

"Relax," he breathes. "I don't want you tense when I take you. It will hurt less if you relax."

Clary lets out a strangled moan at his words, to which he laughs but releases her hips. She makes herself sink back on the bed as he resumes his torturous path down to her core. It's painful to not arch up or squirm but she manages to stay relaxed as the prince delves down into her core with his tongue. She gasps at the sensation of his hot, seeking tongue dipping into her and teasing the core of her pleasure. Her fingers lace themselves in his hair again and her hips stroke upward against his tongue.

He growls against her, sending a vibration up through her body, making her moan as it spreads through her center. His lips caress her sensitive skin and his teeth nip at her clitoris. She sucks in a breath as she climaxes, bringing fear into her veins of what he's going to use next to make her orgasm. Pulling back she sees him lick his lips like a hungry predator closing in on his next kill. Her lips part slightly and her hands move down to cover her sex, her knees coming up to close her legs as the prince leans over her with a dark smirk.

His hands slide down from her hips over her inner thighs, parting the supple skin as he goes. He lightly cups her wrists, removing them from her throbbing core and wrapping them around his neck. He settles between her legs and she shocks at the feel of him against her thigh. He leans down and draws at her lips languorously, flushing her body with hormones and heat. She moans quietly, her body loosening but she locks up as she feels his tip touching her.

One of his hands slide down her back and cup her rear, managing to soothe her body if only slightly. Her breathing is labored from both the prince's efforts and his advances. The hand cupping her rear slides forward and massages her sweet spot, compelling her body to relax as pleasure pours through her. She still trembles as the prince treats her, massaging and coaxing, soothing her but none of it wipes away all the fear of what's to come.

He might not be gentle, a voice whispers. He'll hurt you, just like everyone else in your life has. She turns her face into the covers as fear threatens to dominate her body. Her muscles lock for an infinitesimal fraction of a moment before her training kicks in and coerces her body into melting but apparently the prince hasn't missed it.

He kisses gently up her neck as he slips two fingers inside her. She knows what he's doing as he pumps them in and out, slowly and he adds another finger. He's stretching her tight, virginal entrance to accommodate him. It still won't be enough to lessen the pain. He sucks on her earlobe before drawing back and blowing a breath across her skin, raising goose bumps.

She moans into the sheets as his fingers continue their work and he moves his length closer to her. She whimpers and resists pulling away, her eyes shut tightly and face turned, buried in the covers as though they can protect her from the pain to come.

"Hush now, my sweet. It will only hurt for a moment then I promise I'll have both of us screaming out in ecstasy," he whispers. He kisses her turned cheek. "I'm so sorry for having to hurt you but it won't last more than a moment and every day hence forth all you'll feel is pleasure, I promise."

_Because after this all you'll want from me is to fuck. _Clary thinks bitterly, knowing that once he's inside her and the pain has subsided, her training will take over and blind him with ecstasy so that all he'll know from her, all he'll want from her, is pleasure. Clary's brow draws together against the sheets as she feels his fingers continue to pleasure her and soon she's gasping out her release.

"Now you're ready darling," he soothes. "Promise me you won't tense," he breathes against her skin. She nods and takes a deep breath to calm herself as she feels his tip pressing against her. "Show me your beautiful green eyes, little one," he whispers and the weight of that nickname slams into her. He must be at least five or six years older than her and here he is, deflowering her at his own will. She still is a little girl to this man. That's what she was to her foster father.

She turns her head obediently, her heart racing with ecstasy and fear, and opens her eyes to meet his piercing black gaze. Her eyes widen in fear, glazed over with pleasure. "Watch my eyes," he commands, somehow soothing her, and presses into her. She tenses instantly but he stops moving and gives her a hard stare before she eases down. He uses short, steady strokes until he comes up to her virginity. He laces his fingers with hers, bringing her knuckles to his lips and brushing a kiss over them. His eyes never break contact with hers.

"Only for a moment," he whispers before breaking through her virginity in one quick stroke. She throws her head back and cries out from the pain now lacing her body. Her grip on his hand turns white knuckled as the pain throbs through her and she clenches around him. A tear slips from the corner of her eye as he remains still inside her, letting her adjust to the sensation and pain.

He leans down and kisses the tear away, stroking his thumb over her knuckles as he begins slow and lush strokes into her body. She clenches tightly as the pain sores and he stops, stilling around her. "Be calm, little one. I'll make the pain go away."

Clary whimpers, another tear falling from her eye before she relaxes around him and he begins thrusting into her. The pain spikes for a moment before it's replaced with an unimaginable pleasure. She lets out a disbelieving gasp as the pleasure builds behind her naval and coats her entire body, pushing farther the longer the prince moves inside her. The prince's hand squeezes hers in reassurance as he leans down and kisses away the second tear that had fallen before drawing her lips out of the covers and turning her head to lick at her lips.

She starts meeting his thrusts, her hips bucking up against his in an effort to heighten the pleasure, her training definitely showing as the prince immediately moans at her movements. Her skin tingles as the prince dominates her body, using strong, smooth strokes to take his own pleasure while ensuring her own. So he's not rough, he's being gentle and making sure she doesn't hurt… this time. It's her first time and the prince could change his pace at any moment but right now…

She moans into the prince's mouth and pulls her lips away as she throws her head back, thrusting her hips up to meet his stroke. Her free hand is gripping his bicep, her other one having unconsciously gone down to stroke him as he thrusts in and out of her, his hand braced beside her head as he leans down and kisses her neck, sucking on the skin delicately before moving down to her breasts. The sensation of his mouth on her nipple and his shaft buried inside her are enough to through her into complete bliss.

She cries out once more, this time in ecstasy as her orgasm washes through her. It's much more powerful than the ones the prince provided her with before while using his hands and mouth and tongue. This one rips through her body, completely obliterating any sense at all and the prince continues his strokes, faster now, creating a dark, steady rhythm to the background of her orgasm. It makes her pleasure sore as he searches for his own release. With one more steady thrust, he finds it and his warmth floods here core as he collapses on top of her in the midst of his orgasmic tremors.

She lies panting beneath his heavy body, her own beginning to relax as her breasts heave and press against the prince's chest. He releases her hands, wrapping both arms around her waist and holding her to him as he rolls over with her so she's lying on top of him. He laces his fingers together at the small of her back, her legs tangled with his and her hair cascading over his bare chest. He's placing soft kisses over her neck and cheeks, his fingers drawing patterns on the skin of her back.

"How was your first time?" He asks quietly, his breath blowing her hair across her cheek. She turns her face into his chest, blushing at the thought of what they'd just done. But why? She's been desensitized to sex for a long, _long _time. It's not like this is anything new. Just the feel of a man inside her, stroking her with his body until she's overcome with pleasure. The prince chuckles lowly at her shyness. "What? My red beauty has only now developed a sense of modesty? It is only us here, tell me," he whispers in her ear and she slides her hands up his sides, bracing her hands below his shoulders.

"It was… gratifying," she says, brushing her lips over his cheekbone. He shivers beneath her and squeezes her waist tightly. He pulls a blanket over the both of them, draping it over her bare rump and back. Tiredness settles into her bones as a pleasing ache starts in her core, sparking every time she shifts her hips against him.

He lets out a deep, satisfied sigh before tucking his nose into the crook of her neck. "Just gratifying?" He coos, scratching his nails over the sensitive skin of her buttocks. She arches up at the feeling as she settles back on to his hard body. She lays a kiss on his left pectoral, leaving her nose pressed to his chest, too tired to move anymore. Her entire body is weighed down with fatigue as the prince continues stroking her skin, soothing any negative thoughts she had a moment ago.

She mumbles assent, nodding her head against her prince's chest. She mindlessly rubs her leg over his, loving the prickly feeling of his hair scratching her shaved legs. It feels so good to be pressed up his naked, hot skin. She lets her elbows give out and she threads her fingers into his ivory locks. She breathes in his dark scent, pleasing herself at his smell. She nuzzles against his chest, her pelvis brushing over his cock. The hair at the center of his body is still warm and moist and she can't resist reaching down between their bodies to curls her finger in the dark blond hair.

He groans and arches his hips forward before settling back down. They both seem to be enjoying the feel of the others' body, Clary's novice but skilled hands caressing his cock and his hard biceps. The prince's hands sliding over her butt and back. She lays her head down on his chest, closing her eyes and soaking up the warmth. Her fingers still curled in the hair at the center of her prince's body, she falls asleep to the dull soreness and steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

She comes awake to silence, echoing, deafening silence. Her eyes open to a plain of blackness, a sick feeling in her gut and a throbbing soreness between her legs. Her hands fist in the bed sheets; she's no longer a virgin. It's gone, the innocence that was supposed to be _hers _to give away not some pimp's to sell. Her cheeks flame in anger and she turns them into the soft pillows cushioning her body. She holds back the tears, the infuriating, long held tears that threaten violently to spill over at the injustice of her slavery. It's not like she didn't consent, just not to being _sold._

She let the prince enter her, without struggle or complaint but that is what she's trained to do. Because she was taken prisoner! Her breath hitches as she holds back a sob. It's not fair, it's not fair. Why did she have to be captured and sold as a whore! What did she do to deserve this? Her body shudders with repressed anger before she remembers where she is and forces herself to relax, on the off chance the prince might waken and catch her violently trembling.

His arm is thrown over her waist, securing her snuggly to his chest while his leg encases both of hers, holding her lower body hostage with no chance of escape. For a moment she can imagine herself in the arms of someone she loves, cuddled together after love making and deep in a sated slumber. But this is the prince, her buying patron whom she's to please with her body and mouth for the rest of her life and to whom her virginity was sold to. It wasn't love making, it was sex, nothing more.

For it to be love making, she feels that there should be a deeper emotional tie to the reason why you want to be inside someone, to be as close as physically possible to someone while at the same time you can feel their heartbeat as your own. You want to be able to feel that person's love flowing through you as though you matter to them and anyone who says otherwise doesn't matter because the one person you care about, cares enough about you to want something more than a physical connection.

She sighs with hopelessness, knowing she'll never be able to accomplish such a thing in the business she has been sold into. For now, she's an object, an object to be abandoned or displayed by the preening peacock that holds the key to the box that holds her soul. A soul that hasn't been hers for six years, one that she hasn't seen hide nor hair of since Valentine ripped it from her and wrapped it up with a red bow, selling it for six point three million dollars to a pampered prince.

She entertains the idea that the prince could be something deeper than a self-centered asshole. Maybe his arrogance hides something deeper and darker and more painful than she can know but she has her own demons and doubts someone of this man's standing has had many problems in his life. Instead of thinking about the technicalities and problems this relationship presents for her and her alone, she laces her fingers in the warm, strong hand splayed across her stomach.

She can feel his nakedness pressed against her and despite the heart wrenching despair she feels, she doesn't fault the prince on his physical and sexual prowess. His hard, ridged stomach and powerful, sculpted thighs are a sight to behold. The way his biceps flexed every time he stroked into her while braced above her body sent shivers down her spine. His firm, hot chest pressed up against her breasts, rubbing her nipples until they were taut and pert, she shudders at the very thought.

And so, it seems, does the prince. A violent shiver runs through him and his firm but gentle grip on her turns fierce with the convulsion. She can feel a thin sheen of sweat begin to coat his body, making his skin slick and hot. His heart races against her shoulder blade before he wakes up with a gasp, his breath blowing harshly against the back of her neck. He must still think she's asleep and she doesn't make any move to prove him wrong as he rolls onto his back, his arm sliding off her waist until just his fingertips brush her hip. His leg still lays across hers, just not as tightly before he withdraws from her completely.

She rolls over to see where he went but finds him sitting on the edge of the bed, his feet on the ground, elbows on his knees and the heels of his hands dug into his eyes. Clary kneels up, crawling on her hands and knees over the soft mattress to her clearly distressed prince. Despite her bitterness towards the prince she doesn't want him to suffer or see him distressed. She's not that terrible of a person that she would turn away comfort from someone who needs it.

Sitting back on her heels she places a hand on his shoulder. He shudders, his body tensing beneath her soft hand. She expects him to brush her away, turn away the hand of his play toy in a vulnerable moment but instead his large hand covers hers, tracing his thumb over her knuckles..

He says something in Idrian, long and lilting in his beautiful accent, caressing her skin like silk. She moves forward on her knees, wrapping her other arm around his chest and circling her legs around his waist so she can lean her head on his back.

"You know, if I'm going to live here I'm going to have to learn Idrian one of these days," she says quietly, into his skin and she can feel his shaky chuckle through his ribcage.

"I'll be sure to teach you when we get everything settled, _pélara_," he whispers, draping his arms over her legs. He's silent now, forcing his breathing to even out. His body is still tense despite the laugh he'd let out and Clary gives him a comforting squeeze.

"What's wrong, my prince?" She says, nuzzling her cheek against his shoulder blade. His body's so warm and solid; she can remember the feel of his front pressed against hers just this afternoon. She can't imagine her prince would have anything wrong with him. The possibility of him becoming anything but perfect and unmarred is slightly disconcerting. She doesn't want to show any sympathy to her buyer, her patron, but the tension riddling his body is causing her own muscles to coil in stress and her heart pulls painfully at the thought of him being hurt.

She doesn't know where the feeling's come from but she can't help acting on it. She settles against his firm body to better comfort him and comfort herself. He still doesn't relax despite the warm caress of her body. Her naked body. He slowly unwraps her soft limbs from his body, reaching back with his strong arm to move her aside so he can lay back on the bed, feet still planted on the ground. She throws an arm across his torso to brace herself over him, her legs tucked beneath her. She looks down on the prince's rattled gaze, feeling the anxiety exuding from his pores as her red hair falls in a curtain around her face.

"Will you tell me please, my prince? I don't like to see your distress," she whispers, leaning down to brush her nose over his. Strangely enough, she means her words to the prince, distress grates against her own nerves and makes her worry for the other person's wellbeing. Though the only other people she's ever felt this way towards have been Izzy and Alec.

His fingers trace over her wrist delicately as he contemplates telling her what troubles him. His eyes dance across her face, his black irises ringed with silver reflect his reluctance and indecision. How can a prince be so torn up about telling her something? What happened to make him so secretive? It's not like she'll tell anyone, or would if she could. She's bound by Escort rules to keep any and all secrets of their patrons to themselves. It makes the patrons feel safer and it relieves them of the stress of having to hide anything.

Her prince take a deep breath, still sparking shocks across her skin with his roughly callused fingertips. "It's just a recurring nightmare, Clary," he says, breaking eye contact to glance down her body. She feels exposed as his eyes skirt over her breasts and stomach. He doesn't look back up. "My father, the previous king, was not the kindest of men. He didn't appreciate failure or take disappoint very well."

Clary leans down, pressing her chest to his as she feathers a light kiss across his cheek. "I'm sorry. A father should look after their son and be proud of their child, not take out their anger on them," Clary says, her own heart twisting as she imagines what her father would have been like but crashing in disappointment as she can't remember anything about him. All the foster fathers weren't ever close to being fatherly, especially the one who was arrested. Okay, they were all arrested at some point but the one who almost raped her. The best one ever did was not hit her for bringing more of her things from school home, or maybe that was the one who threw the beer bottle. They've all sort of blurred together, not being important enough to have a solid place in her memory but severe enough she can remember each ones face as they would hit her and abuse her. Not even the worst one, his face is the blurriest.

"Well, I was never old enough or strong enough to stop him from landing blows but the worst part was that I had to love him. He is the only family I've ever had. My mother died giving birth so I never knew her or had any siblings. My childhood was lonely and painful, many nights I went to bed with welts on my back with no one to care for them. But I have you now," he says, brushing his fingers lovingly over her cheek.

Clary's heart sinks. She didn't know she was the only one he had. It makes her feel terrible of her judgment of him, she didn't know he was so lonely and abused. The prince grazes his thumb over her lips, smoothing the frown from them. Out of all things, he smiles up at her, really, genuinely smiles at her. Not one of his playful smirks and she feels like a horrible person. Maybe he isn't such a bad person after all.

She turns her face into his hand, pressing her soft lips to his palm. She feels like she needs to make up for all of her harsh judgment. The prince seems just as damaged as her, a father who beat him and ignored him is almost worse than having no father at all. She should know, she's had her real father abandon her and her foster fathers abuse her. She never would have expected a king of all people to beat his Heir, his son.

She swings her leg over his torso, straddling his hips, and kisses up his forearm to his shoulder. Now she knows what's happened to him she can see and feels the scars, almost completely faded but still visible on his skin. There's one cutting across his collarbone that she runs her tongue along before blowing a cool breath over.

"Oh, my prince, my poor prince," she murmurs, tucking her nose into his neck. "I'm so sorry. No father should beat their child. No one deserves to be rejected by their own family," she whispers, her own feelings and memories rising up and threatening to choke her. Her breath catches before she recovers herself, wrapping her arms around the back of the prince's neck.

His arms come around her waist and at this point she doesn't really care that they're both naked, the skin on skin contact is strangely comforting. Like they're both baring their secrets to each other. The thought only succeeds in making her feel worse. The amount of secrets she's keeping could drown a horse. Suddenly she wants to pour her heart out to the prince but she knows how stupid that would be. She can't know how the prince will react.

She's not allowed to react to his secrets or tell them because she's bound but it doesn't work the other way around. If an Escort decides to divulge his or her secrets to their patron, being that the patron owns them, that includes their secrets, they can do whatever they wish with them. Tell others, scorn the Escorts for it. The worst that she's heard, the worst that she thinks is, was when a female Escort had told her patron something that she'd done and he'd chained her up in their dungeon naked for a week, physically torturing her with pleasure. The sadistic prince thought it best the Escort be punished for her transgression before she was worthy of lying with him. And the prince can do that, her prince can do that to her. She doesn't know if he will, but the possibility hangs menacingly over her.

"Sweetheart," the prince soothes, noticing her catch of breath and strained voice. "Calm down, he's gone now and there's no need to become so upset." He doesn't say it scornfully, his voice is steady and concerned, if not a little humorous.

"But the way he treated you wasn't fair. You deserve affection just as much as the next person," she whispers, not quite sure if she's speaking about herself or the prince.

He rolls over, laying her gently down on the bed beneath him before kissing her nose and her cheeks. "I have you for that now," he says before he captures her lips in a soft kiss, soft but consuming as he seems to enfold her with his body and movements, blocking everything out. She makes a satisfied sound before cupping the back of his neck to deepen the kiss, suddenly hungry for more, so much more. Like love and actual affection but with the prince right now, she thinks with his passion she might just be able to pretend he actually loves her. It won't be hard with how he takes care of her.

A thought strikes her as the prince licks at her lips, coaxing them open. He'd called her by her nickname. Not even Valentine had called her that. Only Isabelle and Alec, then Simon but she didn't expect it from her prince, always so formal and reserved. He called her Clary for the first time and the realization smacks into her with the force of a hurricane, crushing her chest and making her hormones rage as she wraps her legs around the prince's waist. She wants more of him and he obliges her, pressing himself between her legs where she's already starting to burn.

He pulls back from the heated kiss, his hands having tightened around her waist desperately, as though clinging to his very soul and if he lets go he'll be lost. She opens her eyes to stare into desperate black ones, so desperate for acceptance and love. How could she have ever thought this man was spoiled and uncaring of others? This man is nothing but loneliness and desperation, he just hasn't shown it to anyone other than her.

"I shouldn't be the only one who loves you," Clary murmurs, cautiously skimming the implications of that sentence. Twenty four hours ago she would have known it to be completely untrue. Even a few minutes ago but now, with him lying his childhood, a childhood that a man like the prince would deem shameful to reveal, before her and waiting for her judgment that thought is now burning away in light of another. The horrid thing to her is she had already passed judgment on him before she even set foot on his private jet.

That concrete opinion that she thought couldn't be shattered is now slowly and steadily crumbling the longer she is with the prince, the longer he takes care of her and the more he proves gentle and patient with her. He even waited until she was ready to take what he bought. Most men, having the written proof that a woman's virginity belongs to them would have waved it in front of the woman and ordered them to their bed at their earliest convenience but the prince waited and considered her fears and opinions. She's still in shock.

The prince smiles down at her with a smile so sweet and sincere that is melts away another layer of ice over her heart in one look. "You're the only person's love I need or care about little Clarissa."


	6. Stolen Pasts

_It's finally here guys! Took me forever and no there aren't any excuses except that I have have stuff to do and I had writer's block. Either way, I think is going to be one of the shorter Fanfictions but I do have to finish off Jonathan's Angel and help write more of Fructus Arboris Veneato for my friend but have mo fear I will be posting a new story soon which yes I have hinted at before but I will finally post at least the first chapter in the next week or so. Winter Rose is what it's called so look out for it. Enjoy this chapter guys, thanks for sticking around._

Weeks pass without incident and Clary becomes more and more accustomed to the prince and his country. He never raises a hand against her, though she gives him no reason to. Her total submission, which she displays most of the time, seems to be the only thing that annoys the prince; that and her omission of her needs or wants. She typically makes sure to give the prince what he wants, never drawing attention to herself the first few days, just as she was taught but as the prince lies in bed with her afterward or just half-conscious in the morning, he tells her things about his childhood, good things and bad. He tells her of all the foolish things he's done and gets her to laugh. He seems to cherish her laughter as though it's what's keeping him alive.

The more he makes her laugh, the more open she becomes and one day she found herself telling him about her own childhood. They were sitting on the balcony, playing chess on a small digital board with hovering, electronic pieces that moved when you touched them. She can't quite recall how he'd broached the subject but she found herself telling him about her first foster father. Of how she'd walked into the wrong room at the wrong time. Of the broken whiskey glass he'd dropped in his dash for her. Of being thrown to the ground like a piece of trash and how her clothes were ripped from her body.

She'd stopped there, finally realizing what she was telling him. She'd looked up to find the prince's face contorted in anger and sympathy, his hand hovering over a chess piece as though about to move it. She'd blanched and stood abruptly, hurrying to lock herself in her room for the rest of the day, wondering why she'd told him, the prince, her patron of all people, what she'd never told anyone else. Not even Izzy. That night, when she'd finally ventured out around midnight to get some food, she'd found the prince waiting for her in the living room, Sterling and Silver curled up on one end of the couch, her prince standing at the other end in nothing but a pair of sweatpants.

She'd glanced at the coffee table to see what she now knows to be popcorn and a tub of ice cream with two spoons stuck in it. The prince beckoned her over, across the dark room except for the dim glow from the television. She'd obeyed, letting the prince draw her down beside him on the couch, tugging a blanket around the both of them. He'd said not a word, just held her comfortingly, watching a humorous movie and sharing her ice cream and popcorn with her. Oddly enough, she'd felt much better by the time she'd fallen asleep against her prince.

He didn't mention what little she told him about her childhood but the next day he took her shopping, finally filling the empty side of his closet with dresses, jeans, shorts, t-shirts, blouses, shoes and an exotic assortment of lingerie that the prince himself picked out for her. He'd gotten her laughing and joking with him only ten minutes into the trip, by the end she'd told him more about her childhood, the other foster homes, living on the street. And he listened quietly, respectfully as Clary had gone through racks of clothes and picked out ratty old jeans that made her feel not like such a tool or worn cotton t-shirts. The prince never once complained about her clothing choice, just handed the cashier his credit card to swipe and kept her talking.

At night, not every night though, the prince might get this look in his eye. Not lust or hunger but something deeper as he looked at her coming in from the shower or the closet as he sat on the bed or stood in the doorway. And her eyebrows would pull together as she walked up to him. As she'd get closer his look would get more and more desperate, tortured almost before either she wrapped her arms around his neck or he cracked and caught her about the waist. From there, who knows, their lips would lock in a fiery kiss, something other than ecstasy would spark in her stomach as he tugged her over to the bed and fell back with her or pinned her down. They'd moan and she'd whimper as he teased. He'd groan with pleasure as Clary played keep away or she'd meet him with her hips. They'd always end wrapped up in each other, sweaty and sated before he'd kiss her behind her ear or her cheek and whisper goodnight before they both fell asleep.

He'd sparked something in her, with his quietude and midnight movies and whispers. She felt like she was discovering herself, the self that had been too oppressed or terrified to come out. She smiled so much more, she laughed in earnest, she felt… free.

And as she sits on the balcony once more with her prince, for now she feels like he's a little more hers and she's a little more his in earnest, playing another game of chess she pushes her queen and with a big grin at her prince says, "Checkmate."

The prince looks up with a smirk on his face, shaking his head. He catches her eyes, holding them with his own black ones as he moves a piece. Leaning back he nods toward the board.

"No, little one, I believe it is I who has the checkmate," he says, his voice low and laughing. She frowns at him as she looks down at the board. He's right, she'd missed that one little spot and now her king was dead… but her prince sits before her all arrogance and pleasure.

"Damn," she murmurs. "I really am terrible at this." She looks up with a sheepish smile.

"Ah, but you're getting better," he says, switching off the board and standing, holding his hand out for her. She doesn't hesitate to take it, letting him pull her up and into his body. "What do you say we go join our king and queen for brunch, hmm?"

Clary looks up to him, finding his warm midnight eyes looking down at her. She feels her wrist twitch in anticipation of what might play out between the queen and herself. But she does not really have any option, when the prince wants something she usually gives it to him.

"I suppose," Clary mumbles but the prince only smiles, leaning down to capture her lips. She makes a small noise of surprise before leaning into the kiss, looping her arms around his neck. His muscled triceps press into her bottom, lifting her up so he doesn't have to bend down as much to reach her lips. His tongue sweeps into her mouth and she moans. She might not love him, but damn is he a good kisser.

He pulls back, holding Clary two inches from the floor with only his arms. "You'll be a good little girl. Won't you Clarissa?"

She represses a small smile before smacking his shoulder. "Put me down you spoiled jerk," she says good naturedly, trying to sound mean but he knows she doesn't mean it.

"Oh, you love living here and you know it," he says, setting her down and tugging her to the door. Clary smiles a little as they ride the elevator down, the prince's fingers firmly woven between hers.

She bites her lip as the doors open, the only people present at the table the king, queen, Will and… the Lightwoods. She stops dead on the outside of the elevator, tugging the prince back as he walks forward. Isabelle is seated to the right of Will while Alec is to the left. Their pitch black hair is groomed and their clothes, pressed with the royal seal of Idris not Portugal. They have genuine smiles on their faces as they pick off plates of fruit, cheese, eggs and toast.

They look like they have the happiness of a freed person after years of enslavement, a happiness she has no chance of having. The prince stops and turns back to her. "Clarissa, what's wrong?"

She tries to speak, opening her mouth but nothing comes out. Guilt crashes down on her but her mind tells her there's no reason to be guilty; if they're here, eating beside the duke with no Portuguese royalty in sight, they're free. She's drawn attention now, the queen and king turning to see why she and the prince are standing in the middle of the room, motionless. Her vision's tunneled, staring at absolutely nothing as she flashes back to all the punishments she'd been dealt and caused at Night's House.

But she hears a high pitched squeal, the sound of a chair being shoved back and she's suddenly crushed against a willowy, feminine body. She doesn't have the sense to return the embrace as Isabelle crushes her in a hug, words flying out of her mouth but Clary can't hear them. She can only feel the prince's hand wrapped in hers.

After a moment, her hearing comes back but only after Isabelle has released her and turned on the prince, calling him an array of unsavory names before going into a lecture.

"What kind of unethical, disgusting dirt bag purchases an eighteen year old girl's virginity?" She shouts at the prince. "We're people too you know. Not just property to be bought and owned by pompous, spoiled, overbearing Royalty who think they are above everyone! You're a despicable person. Just because you think you're something special doesn't mean that you have the right to buy a person like a slave! I did not think we had returned to the Dark Ages you egotistical bastard!"

Izzy's arms are still wrapped around Clary, shielding her from the prince, who looks dangerously close to biting someone's head off. Clary is incapable of saying anything, watching the anger and irritation grow in her prince's eyes. She wonders why he hasn't lashed back, putting Isabelle in her place like she knows he's fully capable of.

"Isabelle!" Someone scolds. Clary glances over Isabelle's shoulder to find Will standing, frowning at Izzy who is trying to defend her friend's integrity and rights.

The black haired girl hangs her head, "Apologies Uncle but when you've lived the life of an Escort you can't help but rise to the defense of others." She said it with such contempt and shame that Clary couldn't help but cringe at the thought of what the Portuguese prince could have done to her. And it's all her fault. Clary hugs her elbows, removing herself from both the prince and Izzy's grasp, and steps back from her friend, right into the arms of her prince who's moved around to stand behind her.

His arms snake around her, holding her tightly against his chest, sensing the infinitesimal shudder that is running through her body. He runs his thumb over her wrist as Will comes over to drag Isabelle back to the table, still voicing her complaints and objections as Clary sees faint looks of horror pass across her features. It's her fault, her fault she and Alec had to be subjected to that. Glancing at Alec, she sees the stoic expression he always wore when he was hiding something. How horrible were the Portuguese royalty?

"We could skip breakfast little one, if that is what you wish," he says, leaning down to whisper in her ear. His grip tightened fractionally when he caught the death glare Izzy was shooting him.

The entire dining room was silent, even the king and queen had stopped in their conversation to watch the shouting baroness, the angry Heir and the silent Escort. Clary shook her head, throwing her shoulders back and shaking off the prince's grip to stride proudly, with what little dignity she has left and seats herself beside Izzy, not in the vacant chair beside where the Heir is meant to sit. She wants to resolve what she did, find out how Izzy got out, what was done to her and her brother.

The prince watched her carefully as he moved to sit in his chair beside the king. Conversation had started once more but the prince's gaze remained on her, even if not directly. Clary ignored him and filled her plate with fruit and eggs before turning to Izzy.

"How did you escape?" She asks quietly.

Isabelle turns to her then and leant over, crushing her friend in an embrace. "Simon got us out, all thanks to you Clary."

That froze Clary in her place. "What?"

Izzy pulls back, smiling wide. "You told Simon who we were sold to. Our uncle, William, had been searching for us for years. Our parents… they… passed a year before Alec and I were taken so Will was our only living relative. Simon was searching too, he's been a friend since childhood. And just between you and me," Izzy says, lowering her voice and looking around conspiratorially. "I think he fancies me and I'm beginning to think I fancy him."

"That's…" Clary paused, trying to get past her shock. She might have damned the Lightwood siblings but it looks like she saved them as well. "Amazing, Izzy. That's wonderful." Clary smiled, genuinely ecstatic that her friends escaped their enslavement… and found their family.

Clary restrains the hole and pang of bitter emotion in her chest. She won't begrudge her friends their family and happiness. So the rest of breakfast was filled with ease and happiness and the sound of Izzy and Clary's laughter, even if Clary wasn't entirely comfortable with the growing sadness and her prince's hard stare. She was always aware of the prince's gaze as he conversed with the king and occasionally the queen while Clary got to know Will better and catch up with her friends who are now permanent residents in the castle.

Simon came in, sweeping away dishes with other servants but stopped by Izzy and Clary to say hello as he leaned down to clear away their plates. What almost made Clary laugh was when Simon pecked Isabelle on the cheek whose cheeks flamed bright red all the way to her ears.

"I guess he does fancy you after all," was all Clary had to say.

After the dishes were cleared away and Clary stood with the rest of the breakfast crowd, completely unaware of the prince for the moment, the queen beckoned her over. Clary bit her lip, reluctant to speak with the ruler of Idris but she didn't seem to have a choice. She strolled over to the queen, dropping a shallow curtsy and not looking the ruler in the eye.

"Your Majesty," she says, keeping her eyes on the hem of the queen's emerald gown.

"Come for a walk with me, sweetling," the queen says, beckoning for Clary to follow. She did, silently, and the queen led them out to the garden, where she and the prince walked not too long ago. She blushes at the thought of what had followed that walk. Clary trails quietly behind the queen, who strides regally through the garden, taking a separate path than she and the prince had.

They come, after two minutes, to a green lush courtyard, despite winter's closeness, a bubbling fountain sparkling in its center. Slick, white marble benches line the fountain's perimeter and the queen sweeps down onto one, keeping her eyes on the rainbows flashing in the spraying water.

"Sit," the queen says and not with the bite she would have expected but the motherly sweetness that graced her stance in the dining room that first morning. Clary sits down with all the grace of the queen but feels like an awkward, ugly duckling in presence of a graceful swan.

They sit in silence for a moment and Clary begins to drift in thoughts of what the prince is going to do to her when she gets back to the room. After what she did at breakfast, leaving his side and sitting beside her friend that had called him essentially a selfish, capricious, amoral bastard. He'll probably do something nasty to her. Her prince has no control over his temper, she's discovered these past months. He will never raise a hand to her at least; that much she knows but he is rather creative in his exploitative ways. She shudders then jumps as the queen's honeyed voice floats through air.

"I used to have a daughter."

Clary turns toward the queen, catching the gleam of tears glistening in green eyes. The shock that the queen would share something so personal with her, with an Escort, shakes her to her core.

"She was the most darling little girl," the queen continues. "Little tufts of red curls, flaming green eyes, brilliant smile. I loved her so much that it nearly killed me when my first husband took her away fifteen years ago. I can't imagine why he would take mine and Lucian's child after he abdicated the throne nor why he abdicated. He did not even have brother's to pass the throne to, making it even more difficult to abdicate than it already was. No brothers, no sisters, his parents were dead and only Jonathan was left but he was only seven, yet he still gave it up, gave me up like some inheritance. He went to his closest friend and councilman, Lucian. Of course I was outraged that I was to be handed off like a common prize to maintain the alliance between the Fairchild Empire and Idris but Lucian…" The queen smiled faintly, as though recalling a pleasant memory long since forgotten.

"Lucian and I had been growing closer the few years previous, due to my husband's inattentions. I didn't think it too terrible if he was to be my new husband in place of that old tyrant and I knew he would make a much better king than Valentine."

Clary freezes in her spot, her knuckles turning white as she grips the edge of the bench. Valentine?!

"V-Valentine, Your Majesty," Clary stutters softly.

"Yes, my dear, Valentine. After he abdicated, he still resided in the castle for a few years. And in those few years he was only ever quiet and reserved, never leaving his suite even long enough to visit with Jonathan. I began to feel sorry for the poor boy, he himself began to lock himself in his suite or spar with the castle security in the time he spent outside his rooms. I tried speaking with him or bonding with him, but by the time I'd plucked up the courage to talk to my stepson he'd turned away all human contact because of Valentine's abandonment. All contact except my new born daughter, Lucian and mine's first child. I don't know what it was, they weren't even related, not by blood at least and one would have expected Jonathan to hate the child that belonged to the man who took his father's place as king but no, he didn't. He would always show up at my door to my rooms and ask to come in while she was laying in her crib and read to her or sit on the couch with her in his lap while her children's shows were playing. It was the only time I saw him smile, laugh, or even speak. He loved her much more than I think he should have been able to."

A wistful look came over the queen's face as one tear streaked down her flawless cheek. Clary has no idea why the queen would be telling her this and questions swirl in her mind in a torrent. Valentine was king? He took the queen's daughter? Who was the daughter? Is she alive? Why? Why did Valentine sink to Escort trafficking after being the king of Idris?

Her throat closes at the unimaginable possibility forming in her head. She's never been that lucky, she's not that kind of person either. It's not possible. Even if it was true, why was she abandoned to the foster care system of New York? Her heart sinks as she realizes that, how absurd it is to hope that she's the long lost princess, and it crushes the small budding flower of hope under the cold, hard boot of reality. No, she ducks her head, hiding tears threatening to fall. No one would abandon a princess, especially one Heir to the Fairchild Empire, in an empty apartment complex.

Her heart crushed, she sits quietly, letting the queen work through her own emotions as she dredges up this story from what looks like a long and painful past.

"On my daughter's third birthday, she was stolen. Gone from her crib in the middle of the night as well as Valentine from his bed. The whole castle was in an uproar, Valentine's rooms were empty, her crib had been turned over; everything was utter chaos. But Jonathan, my poor boy, only sat in my baby's empty room, staring at the cradle for hours after he found out. The only other person he had bonded with was gone, and that was the last time I saw him smile, truly smile or laugh." The queen stopped, turning toward Clary whose head was still tilted down, stifling tears after she let her hopes get the better of her.

She'll never deserve anything more than being a slave, a prisoner to someone else's whims. Though, her prince is not at all a bad person. He respects her space, her privacy, her free will but it is still freedom given, not freedom retained. She's still a prisoner, still an Escort. Still a nobody.

"That is until you, sweetling."

Clary's head snapped up, uncaring that her face was probably red. "What?"

"My son, even though he despises me calling him that, hasn't smiled for fifteen years until you came into his life. I see the way he acts around you. How on edge he always is as he scans a room as though someone might jump out and steal you away. How he always remains close to you. How he looks at you… it's the way he used to look at her…" The queen trails off for a moment. "You'll have to forgive me, but if you are who I think you are, Jonathan would know. I don't fault him for keeping it a secret if it is true. I don't blame him for wanting to keep my baby hidden after you were stolen from him and me and Lucian at such a young age. When you go back to your rooms, make sure to tell him that. Tell him that there isn't any need to be scared, if you are her, then he doesn't need to hide you. He's not the only one who lost someone they love that day."

The queen turns away then, tears in her eyes, and focuses on the fountain. "I apologize if I frightened you, and if I do prove to be wrong, I apologize for, how do they say it? Pouring my heart out to you?" The queen turns back, her motherly smile touching her lips. "Even if you are not her, I would like to get to know you better darling."

She reached a loving hand up to brush away a red curl from Clary's cheek.

"Your Majesty," Clary says but it comes out a whisper and she has to clear her throat, finding it difficult to speak around the lump in her throat. What a dream it would be to have a family, a mother. But it's just not possible, not for someone like her. "Your Majesty, I'm here for you to speak with, always. I will tell the prince what you said, though listening to your story and knowing him now, I don't think he would be one to lose such a precious possession that when he got her back, he would do something like revealing her. He'd be scared she'd be taken from him again." Her own voice trailed off, realizing how much she really intimately knew about the prince. That she knew so much she could make that inference. "But I will ask him to dig out my papers, where ever he's placed them, so we can put your mind at ease."

Clary stood, brushing off her dress of nonexistent dirt, only needing something for her trembling hands to do. "I am sorry, but I do not think it possible I'm your daughter. With someone of my background, I'd hardly ever be even distantly related to royalty, let alone the daughter of the queen of the Fairchild Empire as well as one of the most powerful countries in the world. I offer my condolences," Clary said with a curtsy before she left. Leaving the queen to stare after the small, lithe redhead, walking with the exact, purposeful stride of her mother.

Clary holds back her tears. She won't let her emotions get the best of her, won't let hope try and build something so ridiculous only to have it knocked down with a few inked words. Even though she walked steadily through the gardens, as soon as she reached the castle, she bolted for the stairs, completely disregarding the elevator. She runs up the many flights, barely even panting as she tries to shove all thoughts from her head.

Reaching the bridge spanning the throne room, she slows to a walk, banishing all thoughts of that possibility from her mind, just like she's so good at. She runs a hand through her hair, probably making it look messy and tousled but she doesn't care. She needs the touch of her prince all of a sudden. She _needs _it. It feels as though it will comfort her on a level unknown to her. She doesn't know when this became a development but it's true.

She makes it to the prince's quarters, slowly edging the door open before stepping over the threshold. She doesn't get far as the door is slammed shut behind her and she's pinned against the wall in a flash. The prince's face is shadowed with a wicked smirk, tiny sparks of anger dancing in his dark eyes.

"I think you've been a bad girl," he coos, leaning down to brush his lips over her cheekbone. Her eyelids flutter shut and she leans her head back against the door, letting the feel of her prince wash over her in stifling waves.

"Have I?" She whispers mindlessly, creasing her eyebrows at the fervent emotions tearing through her. Her palms are flat against the wall behind her and the prince's looming form cages her in, pulling her under a dark veil of seduction.

"Yes," he purrs. "And I believe you should be punished for it."

Clary blindly nods her head, swallowing a lump in her throat. Anything, anything to wipe away the torment caused by the queen's story. She hears the prince purr before she's thrown over his shoulder, one hand on her butt, the other pulling off her shoes and discarding them as he walks to the bedroom.

Her breath leaves her as she's thrown down onto the bed, the prince jumping on top of her. Her eyes remain closed as the prince strips her down to her panties, not even leaving her with her bra. He lowers his still fully clothed body over her naked one, caging her in with his rippling biceps. His mouth grazes her ear and she turns her head, baring her neck for him.

His teeth scrape against her skin as he kisses up the column of her throat. She arches up into his hard body, digging her nails into his shoulders. He groans from her neck, reaching up to grab one wrist and pulling away from her to grab the other. She whimpers, bucking her hips as the prince places her wrists together in one hand and holds them above her head.

She refuses to look at him, refuses to see the little boy who lost his family and the one girl he'd bonded with. Refuses to see the man that hasn't smiled in fifteen years until she came into his life. All she wants to know in this moment is pleasure. Feel his calloused, skilled hands work her body in that masterful way of his, feel the silk caressing her wrists as he ties her wrists together, his hot breath blowing over her bare breasts before he takes one into his hot mouth.

She gasps, her face buried in the comforter, as she feels his tongue swirl around her nipple and his teeth pressing down lightly, but harsh enough that she cries out. He laughs quietly, leaning back on his knees to straddle her hips. She feels his hands, running over her flat stomach, her hips, her thighs. She moans as his fingers brush the cotton of her underwear, right where she's burning in need for him. She wants him to sweep her away. To engulf her in sensation and heat and ecstasy.

She tugs at the silk binding her hands but finds it secure, no doubt part of her 'punishment.' The prince's heat sears her skin as he leans down over her, his button up shirt brushing over her pert nipples, making her press up into him. His fingers brush over her chin, raising gooseflesh, before he gently grabs her chin and turns her face up toward his. She keeps her eyes tightly shut.

His thumb strokes her jaw, making her sigh with pleasure but she can feel his nose brushing over her cheek, kissing her cheekbone before pulling away.

"Why don't you look at me, little one?"

"It's disrespectful," Clary murmurs, all too aware after the queen's story of how lowly she is compared to the prince. She's a whore he bought to sate his sexual need and Clary had been letting that slip her mind these past few weeks. She's his inferior.

"Why would it be disrespectful? Is it disrespectful when I look at you?" The prince asks, playful petulance lacing his voice. Clary keeps her eyes shut.

"I'm your Escort, prince. Nothing more than bought property."

The prince springs into action at her words, flipping her over and smacking her on the rear, hard enough to leave a slight sting. She cries out, her eyes flying open, her face softly pressed against the mattress as the prince settles his body over her back.

"What did I tell you Clarissa?" The prince asks gently, stroking the now sore part of her backside, slowly pulling down her panties as he dips his head to lick her ear. "You're my bought nothing. I view you as my equal and I won't tolerate your demolition of your image. Understand?"

"Yes," she moans as his fingers slip between her thighs and past her panties, delving into her core. She clenches around him but that only makes him curl his fingers inside her. She pushes her hips back into his body, but he only lays over her pinning her to the bed. She doesn't care she just blatantly lied to her prince, she just needs him to blind her.

Her bound hands are tucked under her chest as her prince peels himself from her body. He lifts her hips to pull away her panties. She blushes at how vulnerable this position makes her, how animalistic and primal she's always though this position was. She's always viewed it as something for the man's pleasure, not the woman's. The woman always faces away while the man does what he pleases, the woman helpless to do anything.

She yelps as his lips touch the sore and probably red mark on her butt cheek. His surprisingly cool lips soothe the heat in her skin. His hands curl around her thighs, lifting her hips up as he presses more chaste kisses against her rear.

"You don't seem to understand how much I love you little Clarissa," he mutters against her skin. "You don't seem to comprehend how much you mean to me, how lovely you are, how kind you are, how thoughtful. I can't imagine why you would want to hide behind petty rules that, as I've said before, no longer exist now that your safe with me."

Her breath catches, he said the words. Those three words that aren't supposed to exist for someone like her. But there they are, hanging in the hair, draped over her skin as the prince runs his hands along her silken thighs, traveling to the button of his jeans. She hears the zipper and the soft down fall of the jeans to the floor. She clenches her core in anticipation, she hates not seeing how close he is, when he'll penetrate her.

"Are your eyes open?" She hears the prince question and she turns her face into the covers.

"Yes," she replies and suddenly he is covering her, enveloping her body. Her skin prickles at his nearness and she jumps as his fingers trail directly down her spine. As he reaches the base of her spine, she moans. He leans down to whisper in her ear.

"Close them." His hot breath blows over her skin.

She buries her face in the covers and his hands cup her butt. She shivers as he bends over her, pressing his lips to the base of her spine. His tongue licks over her vertebrate and she groans, his mouth moving over her bum. His hands brush over her thighs before he flattens his body over hers, wrapping his arms around her waist and pulling her up against him.

"No more leaving me at the breakfast table, do you understand?" He asks quietly, not really threatening but firm with his regal command.

She whimpers before nodding, letting out a long, low moan as he slowly slides into her, burying himself to the hilt. She pulls desperately at her bound hands but they stay tied, the prince's hands splaying across her stomach as he begins to slowly stroke forward. The prince sighs against her neck, dipping his nose into the crook between shoulder and throat.

"I don't want to hear you ever say how worthless you are, because you're not. You're worth more to me than all the pompous nobility in this castle," he whispers, pressing his pelvis against her buttocks. His heat cascades over her, wiping away her suffocating emotions, replacing it with a dark embrace and a paralyzing ecstasy. He has to be lying, why would he be saying this? She's just an Escort. She can't be the queen's daughter, the prince's long lost childhood friend.

He stops for a moment, sitting back on his knees and pulling her up onto his lap, still facing away from him. He traces his fingers over the delicate skin of her neck, his other moving south to stroke her as he thrusts back into her. Clary throws her head back, moaning at the contact. She has to stop thinking about that, she needs to let his darkness smother her fear and rage and hope until she can just enjoy being where she is, in her prince's bed.

She moves her own enchained hands down to where he's teasing her, making her pleasure roil through her body with a fierce heat. She grabs his wrist, leaning heavily against his muscled chest. Her fingers do nothing to stop his as he uses a knee to spread her thighs wider and thrust deeper into her. Clary's face rolls to the side on her prince's shoulder and he takes the opportunity to capture her lips in a swift passionate kiss before Clary is driven over the edge into pure bliss.

She cries out as her emotion's flare but she can't help but feel the slight kernel of self-loathing and despair planted in her stomach. A welcome reminder of what she really is and a shield to help her remember what she is. A prince's property.

The prince doesn't make a sound as he climaxes, she only feels his rigid muscles grow taut against her back and his hand cupping her stills. There's a moment of utter silence and it deafens her. It stretches in the few moments after the prince's climax. He wasn't enough to wipe away her feeling.

She sinks back against him, her hands still tied, head still resting on his shoulder, lips still brushing his lightly. He gives her another lingering kiss before easing out of her, lowering her onto the bed on her back. Clary's chest is heaving as the prince tenderly nips at her breasts but she's too worn out to react so she only lays there, a slave to the prince's whims.

Her manacled hands lay above her head and the prince reaches for them; pulling on the silk and causing the material to unravel gently. He takes her by the wrists, delicately pulling her up once more. Now instead of silken bonds, they're of muscle and sinew, strong, ironclad hands circling her wrists. She doesn't look at him. She doesn't want to see the pleasure her body brought him.

His arms settle gently around her waist as he presses his forehead to hers, trying to get her to look at him but she only closes her eyes. Her breathing slows from heavy gusts to little spurts through her nose. He brushes her lips with his, teasing her, trying to draw her out of her shell. But she doesn't want to come out, she wants to keep her true feelings and thoughts hidden away, locked tight so they have no chance of hurting her. So she kisses him back, mustering up a smile and forcing her arms around his neck.

He groans before she releases his lips but the hungry prince leans forward for more. Clary places her fingers on his lips, still hot and swollen from their kiss, to stop him. He nips at her fingers, making her pull away with a little grin.

"I'm going to take a shower. You're welcome to join me," she says, sliding off the bed and hoping he does not take her up on her offer. She needs a few moments alone, to sort through all the queen told her and the sinking feeling in her stomach.

The prince smirks handsomely, and butterflies take wing in place of the sinking feeling, lifting her up. She almost frowns at what just his smirk can do to her. "No. I think I'll wash later. I'd be too tempted for another go round if I followed you into that shower."

Her cheeks flame despite herself as she nods and heads down the hall, stark naked to shut herself in the bathroom. Turning on the shower, she rubs her fingers against her temples. How stupid could she be? How could she ever be a princess? A childhood companion of an Heir, of Idris no less. She slides a hand down her neck, to the slightly puckered scar at the back of her neck. Her memories flash between those of her foster father and the night she lost her virginity to the prince.

Both so different, yet the same. Both forcing, in some sense, themselves on her. Both viewing her as nothing more than a little girl with no control. She steps inside the shower, letting the hot, burning water soothe over her skin, burning away her weakness, replacing it with a flaming resolve. Not to let anyone see inside her, her tortured past.

Looking back she feels utterly foolish for telling the prince about her childhood, of how worthless she'd been and still is. It probably only made him view her as a faulty purchase, a broken toy. She wonders why he hasn't just gotten rid of her yet. Why does he keep messing with her mind by lying to her, telling her she's important? Does he enjoy sick mind games? Does he like watching her struggle and writhe?

She feels trapped now, trapped by the prince, by her own mental barriers she's put in place to protect herself and her past from further scrutiny. That feeling of freedom, she realizes only now, that the prince had elicited in the past months has now been crushed, captured and caged by what the queen had said. Those words had shattered the augmented reality she had built for herself. For a few moments, she fooled herself into thinking that she was happy and could make her own choices.

How stupid is she? Even if she did have freedom, it wouldn't come from her. The prince would be allowing her to do something, to live her own life. A granted freedom even with a long leash that the prince could yank back and keep tightly by his side anytime he chose. She scrapes her wet hair from her face as she turns off the shower, toweling drying without really thinking before pulling on a new pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt in the bedroom.

Not like she has any plans of leaving the prince's quarters again anytime soon. Brunch had dragged on into the afternoon earlier and the queen's little 'surprise talk' had lasted maybe two hours. Along with the prince's slow, methodical torture, she'd been taken late into the evening and with winter closing in soon, the sun had already set. She slowly made her way out into the living room, wholly intending to go sit on the balcony and wallow in self-loathing had the prince not been standing beside the couch, also in a sweatshirt that though loose, showed off his hard masculine lines and rigid muscles, along with a pair of black sweats that hugged his thighs before flaring around his calves. His feet were bare.

It looks as though he'd already had a shower despite Clary occupying his for the past who knows how long. She stops at the edge of the hallway, not daring to set foot in the living room where her prince's dark eyes gleam in the dim moonlight filtering through the sheers on the balcony windows. She feels her face heat, her eyes widen like a doe in headlights before she swipes them away and replaces them with a smile that feels and probably looks fake despite her best efforts.

The prince frowns at her and her smile drops, fear settling coldly in her stomach. Had she done something to displease him? Out of the corner of her eye she notices his two hounds lounging on the sofa, just as they always did on and off for the past months, coming into the prince's suites when they seemingly had time to bother him. One, Sterling, leaps off the couch and barrels toward her. He jumps up excitedly, so tall on his hind legs that he manages to lick her cheek.

She smiles slightly before pushing him away, turning her attention to her prince who hasn't spoken a silky, lilting word or moved a taut, hard muscle. Sterling circles her, brushing up against her legs with his muscled, furred rib cage. She absently runs her hand along his back, feeling exceedingly awkward as the prince continues to pore over her with his burning, black velvet gaze. She can feel it like a brand upon her skin.

She almost startles as the prince snaps a sharp word in Idrian that has Sterling sulking back over to his side. Clary purses her lips concerned but not daring to meet his caustic gaze. She feels like a child twiddling her thumbs in front of a grown-up who knows she's done something wrong. The prince's silence now seems to be trying to force words out of her mouth, anything to assuage the prince's harsh stare.

"Come here," he demands, not bothering to soften the sharp edges of his words that make her cringe. But she obeys him nonetheless, slinking smoothly over to him, careful to keep a good foot of space between them. Sterling tries to move forward, wanting attention or to relieve what has to be her obvious stress but the prince snaps at the dog in his language again, sending him skulking back over to Silver on the couch. They exchange quiet yips before he jumps on the couch and settles beside Silver, laying his head over her neck protectively, curling his slightly larger body around hers.

That isn't a good sign. If the prince's displeasure is potent enough that even the dogs sense it, what does that mean for her? She wishes she knew what is causing it so she can alleviate it, if only to rid the room of this tension that is sinking into her bones with each passing second, drawing her muscles tight. She doesn't dare look up at him, keeping her eyes on the floor, thankful for the darkness covering her own unease.

"Do you believe me to be an idiot, Clarissa?" The prince says quietly and she's surprised at how soft his voice is whereas just a moment ago it was demanding, harsh, the voice of a ruler.

She shakes her head frantically, closing her eyes as shame and guilt rise in her throat. What did she do to put him in this mood? Did he finally decide to rid himself of her and her problems? She wouldn't blame him if he did but what scares her is the possibility of going back to Valentine, whom she hasn't even spoken to her prince about.

The prince's fingers curl under her chin and lift her face towards his. Her eyes are still squeezed shut, her body virtually trembling with fear. She notices how close the heat of his body is and knows he's crossed the foot she put between them in an effort to protect herself.

"Then why do you lie so blatantly to me when I can see the pain and torture upon your delicate features as clear as day? Why do you believe you're capable of deceiving me?" His voice is rich, lilting, soft; midnight black velvet caressing her skin and wrapping itself around her body like a lover's caress.

"I don't wish to bother you with my own problems, Your Highness. I don't think it fair that you bought me with the expectation of pleasure only to receive a purchase with damage," she replies softly.

His fingers tighten on her jaw and she can tell he wants to shake her, just from the tension radiating from his body. His quiet growl almost makes her pull away but she stays, not wanting to incite anymore of his anger.

"Why do you insist on presenting yourself as property?"

Her eye fly open and she meets his gaze, despite the piercing chill that runs down her back. Anger and weariness at his sick mental game warm her stomach, rising in her throat.

"Why do you insist I lie? You bought me did you not? You paid a fortune just to own my virginity rights?" She snaps, her voice biting and acidic, years of anger and repression rising up and pouring into her voice, even as her wrist warms threateningly.

The prince, to her shock, does not slap her for her insolence but his mouth curls up in a proud smirk, as though he was pining for a reaction from her all along.

"I cannot buy what already belongs to me," he whispers darkly, not releasing her chin.

The color drains from her face and she shoves at his chest, making his hand drop from her chin as she takes a step back.

"What do you mean?"

He takes a step toward her, his face softening as he snakes his arms around her waist.

"I mean that you were never owned by Night's House. You always belonged with me, in Idris where you were born." His voice has now turned soothing; black velvet once again wrapping around her, racking up waves of ecstasy.

"What?" Clary stammers. It can't be true can it? Hope and confliction rise up in her stomach, turning her mind around until it can't tell up from left.

"Is that not what the queen discussed with you? She finally revealed her growing suspicion that you are her daughter. That you were my childhood love, my soulmate."

"B-but, that isn't possible," Clary says, looking away from her prince. "I can't be a-a princess. My parents abandoned me. If Valentine took me when he fled the castle, why did he leave me to the foster care system only to take me prisoner twelve years later?" Clary looks up at her prince now, searching his face for something, something saying that he is joking. This can't be true, it doesn't make any sense!

His warm, strong arms are supporting her weight, her knees having gone weak moments ago. "You are a princess, little one. Princess Clarissa Adele Fairchild, betrothed of the Heir of Idris, Heir herself to the Fairchild Empire" he says, slightly haughty but altogether happy, smiling, amused even. "You were taken from Valentine upon his arrival in New York, lost to him by some filthy man wanting to rear you as his own and claim the reward the queen had put out for your return."

Clary's knees have given out completely and the prince sweeps her up, bringing her over to the couch and settling her in his lap.

"Then why was I—" Clary can't speak anymore, a lump forming in her throat.

"From what you've told me, this man that kidnapped you, you're first 'foster father' grew lusty," he says with venom and contempt strong enough to kill an elephant. "And that made him sloppy. He was discovered by social services and you were taken away, him thrown in jail. You were lost to Valentine by then, if he had any lead on who'd taken you. You were lost to the foster system. That was until you decided to run away. Valentine must have spotted you some two years later out on the streets and recaptured you."

He nuzzles his nose into her neck, softly, reverently, reveling in each touch and feel of her.

"But _why _did he take me in the first place?" Clary whispers, staring blankly into the dark room.

"I do not know little one," he says quietly, leaning back against the couch, keeping his body curled around hers. And suddenly, instead of the fear that had been rushing through her, comfort sweeps the fear away. Comfort from the prince's warm embrace and the knowledge that she wasn't hated by her parents. That she has a family. But also an overwhelming sadness.

She was taken from her mother and father at the age of three. She didn't get to grow up with them, with the prince. He suffered unnecessarily because of his father just as much as she had at the hands of Valentine.

"It might have been jealousy. He might have realized it was a mistake to give up his throne and his wife and taken you out of spite. It might have been as a bargaining chip to regain what he lost. It might have been for the money of rearing such an important princess, an Heir no less, as an Escort from a young age to sell. I do not know, nor do I care now that I have you back."

He really does care about her. He's been worried and caring about her for the past fifteen years, searching everywhere for her, just to get her back. A thought strikes her, causing her to frown.

"But how did you find me? And why didn't you tell the queen?"

He gives a short, soft laugh to that.

"I found you by finding my father. He was smart to keep you tucked away in his little Night's House. I only found him after he regained custody of you. Ten years little one, and I had no idea where you were. Valentine came out then with advertisements of a precious virgin, an Heir, worth more than any other Escort. Of course he only used news links and channels that did not reach Idris, wanting to hide you for whatever purpose. I had to bide my time though, knowing that Valentine would have hidden you away in some remote corner of the world had there been any hint that an Idrian had found you, recognized you.

"At least for the first three years, then he grew careless, sloppy and I had already secured a bid on you by this time. One any of the Royals or nobles can place on any Escort that they are interested in but are under age. Finally, after six years, that tyrant finally put you to auction like some common toy. When I arrived at the auction in New York and he stepped onto that stage I wanted to wring his neck for treating you like a slave, not a princess, for taking you away from Idris, from the queen, from me. Of course when I arrived, I didn't have any of the Royal seals upon my suit of any of my security guards, for Valentine had still closed the auction to any from the Fairchild Empire.

"So I placed my bid and barely managed not to kill my father on the spot. I had to leave before you were brought out, for risk that Valentine would recognize me and when you stepped onto that plane I knew I'd found you. My little Clary returned," he says and she swears his voice caught in his throat.

She sinks back against him, letting him cling to her, feeling his need like a living, breathing thing.

"I never paid the bastard. I wasn't going to give him what he wanted after all he stole from me. My childhood, my parents, happiness, you. I'm still waiting for him to dare and demand the money, to find out just who bought his stolen princess."

"But why hide my identity from me, from my mother?" Her words catch in her throat, coating her mouth with a foreign sweetness. Mother, how many times had she wished for a woman to call such a title?

The prince, Jonathan now, her animosity towards calling him by his name now somewhat pointless, sighs against her skin, pulling her closer to him. "Greed," he states simply. "I wanted to keep you to myself after all those years of loneliness. I wanted to see who'd you'd become, what you were like, gauge your reaction on the news of your real identity. As well as your safety, if I had announced the lost princess had been returned to Idris, Valentine might have come back or raised an army to take you back. I suspect that is what the wraith was, the day after you arrived, Valentine attempting to rob me and my country of you once more, except only permanently to either spite the queen, the king or myself, I couldn't tell you."

Clary is silent for a long while, partially allowing Jonathan to hold her close, the other out of shock. She has a family, a name. She's not just a worthless whore, she matters to people. She's loved… and betrothed to the Heir of Idris. Her mouth goes dry. The queen hadn't mentioned being betrothed to Jonathan since birth. No wonder he had been so patient in taking her virginity, he could have waited to reveal her identity to her, he had all the time in the world to take it. He wanted to make sure she was ready because he actually matters to him. He owned it anyway, being her betrothed but Clary can't find the anger at the moment to be angry at him for the moment.

Clary actually smiles, leaning back against Jonathan, savoring the feel of him with a new appreciation, feeling as though years of leaden weights were being lifted from her shoulders, making her feel light and free, just as he'd managed to do without even needing to tell her her true identity.

Her head lolls back against his shoulder and his breath ghosts up the side of her throat, his arms secured around her waist, his legs encircling her body. A shiver runs through her before Jonathan presses his burning mouth to hers, shooting adrenaline and pure endorphins through her body. She smiles, a genuine smile, against his mouth, reaching up to tangle her fingers in his ivory hair.

She knows she should be feeling some sense of anger but she can't bring herself to blame this scarred man about keeping his lost friend, betrothed and soul mate to himself after fifteen years of suffering, eight years of a torrential and terrible childhood. How could she?

His warm hands press against her flat stomach as his tongue caresses her lips. His heat sparks her own, causing it to pool lower in her body. He pulls away after a moment, brushing his lips over the corner of her mouth and cheek.

"I suppose you'll want me to be calling you Your Highness now, eh?" The prince asks, hot breath blowing over her skin. Clary smiles, turning in his arms to kneel over him. She runs her thumbs over his high perfect cheekbones. His dark eyes sparkle in the moonlight now, his previous agitation and anger gone now, replaced by what Clary can now openly deem as love.

"I like your little nicknames for me just fine Jonathan," she whispers, not giving him a moment to register his shock that she called him by his name before crushing her mouth to his. He falls back on the couch, enveloping her with his body despite her being on top of him. She laughs before pushing her hands under his sweatshirt, finding it the only thing between her and his hot skin. He smiles in return before dragging her close against his body and taking what he wants after fifteen years of loneliness.


End file.
